Discover the most popular and inspiring quotes and sayings on the topic of Bedeck. Share them with your friends on social media platforms like Facebook, Twitter, or your personal blogs, and let the world be inspired by their powerful messages. Here are the Top 100 Bedeck Quotes And Sayings by 93 Authors including Jennifer L. Armentrout,Anthony Doerr,Eugene Field,Ben Howard,Douglas Adams for you to enjoy and share.
I love your bed." I rolled onto my stomach, smiling.
"I love it so much I'd marry it if I could."
Seth laughed out loud. "You'd marry my bed?"
"Mmm.
A single bed with blood in it. Blood on the pillow and on the sheets and even on the enameled metal of the bed frame. Pink rags in a basin. Half-unrolled bandage on the floor. The nurse bustles over and grimaces at Werner. Outside of the kitchens, she is the only woman at the school.
Wynken, Blynken, and Nod one night
Sailed off in a wooden shoe, -
Sailed on a river of crystal light
Into a sea of dew.
I took the sing from your song. I made a bed where you don't belong.
Ballycumber (ba-li-KUM-ber) n.
One of the six half-read books lying somewhere in your bed.
It had been an annoyingly peacful time in Boarderland, Blister cranky and despressed because he hadn't filled anyone with pus for nearly an enitre lunar cycle.
To be, or not to be; that is the bare bodkin
That makes calamity of so long life;
The bed comprehends our whole life, for we were born in it, we live in it, and we shall die in it
You look good there."
"Where?"
"In my bed."
Duuuuude.
Zart, Lindy (2014-11-20). Roomies (p. 110). Kindle Edition.
Get your bed ready.
Wear the black bra.
I didn't plan on wearing one.
"God help me," I murmured.
Those in their snug Bed-chambers may call the Fears of Night meer Bugbears, but their Minds have not pierced into the Horror of the World which others, who are adrift upon it, know.
The whitewash'd wall, the nicely sanded floor, The varnish'd clock that click'd behind the door; The chest, contriv'd a double debt to pay,- A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day.
Bedeviled, / human, your plight, in waking, is to choose from the words / that even now sleep on your tongue, and to know that tangled / among them and terribly new is the sentence that could change your life.
Thou art a boil, a plague sore, an embossed carbuncle in my corrupted blood.
Come, come, I'll go burn some sack. 'Tis too late to go to bed now. Come, knight. Come, knight.
lying on "mattress graves.
misbegotten cockwaffle.
His bed was where they slept and where the great thing people warned about or giggled about took place. It was not so much painful as dull. Cee thought it would get better later. Better turned out to be simply more, and while the quantity increased, its pleasure lay in its brevity.
Will you mess up my bed with me?
The bed is a metaphysical piece of furniture.
When my desire
grows too fierce
I wear my bed clothes
inside out,
dark as the night's rough husk.
There was a mattress, discolored and waterlogged, like a cartoon-strip drunk slumped against a pole.
Briar Greyson, in the bedroom, with the letter opener.
There was this cheap motel on the outskirts of town called the Tick-Tock Inn, with green-and-yellow vinyl curtains and beds that smelled like mothballs and ass.
I'm just a notch on your bedpost but you're just a line in a song.
If you drink enough beer, everything turns in to a bed.
A knot you are of damned bloodsuckers.
I have dreamed of our bed as if it were a shore where we would be washed up, not this striped mattress we must cover with sheets. [from "After an Absence"]
It's a battered old suitcase to a hotel someplace, and a wound that will never heal. No prima donna, the perfume is on an old shirt that is stained with blood and whiskey. Goodnight to the street sweepers, the night watchmen flame keepers and goodnight, Matilda, too.
dung. Spot wouldn't even put his nose inside the
Alan lowered the lamp flame until there was only a glimmer of light in the room. His skin burned with fever as he climbed into bed beside Huiann. He felt like a groom on his wedding night except, he reminded himself, there would be no copulation. None. Not tonight.
What's done cannot be undone.
To bed, to bed, to bed.
Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair.
I'm alternatingly brilliant and witless-and sleepless: bed is just a swamp to roll in.
We are sitting on our honeymoon bed in the honeymoon suite. We are in a state of honeymoon, in our honey month. These words are so sweet: honey, moon. This bed is so big, we could live on it. We have been happily marooned
honey marooned
on this bed for days.
The myth of Bardot is finished, but Brigitte is me.
There are few things more pleasurable than a cracking version of Hansel and Gretel and a good scab.
Thinking about the bed leaves you horny, but thinking beyond the bed gives you honor, freedom and wisdom.
beaver drools in my underwear.
untie. Clove Hitch
I sincerely hoped I'd beaten the bedding enough that any unwelcome guests of the microscopic variety had gotten the word their invitation was revoked. Pancho
I don't ever want to leave this bed, my lady Taryn. (Sparhawk)
Me either. But if we don't, it could get ugly after a few days. We'd shrivel up from lack of water. (Taryn)
I smell varmint poontang. And the only good varmint poontang is dead varmint poontang, I think.
four-poster bed, torn
I sutured split infinitives and hoisted dangling modifiers and wore out the seam of my best flannel skirt.
What's that sticky stuff called?
Basta: Duct tape.
Yes, duct tape. I love duct tape.
There is a hickey on my forehead!
The itch of scribbling.
A great dowry is a bed full of brables.
[A great dowry is a bed full of brambles.]
Let a book be your best defense to bordem
A bachelor's bed is the most pleasant.
This book is to be read in bed.
Mr Bough has 'surprise picnic' written all over him.
BED. He smelled his adult sweat, tasted it
BEDE. (ubi sup.) Repent, therefore, and believe; that is, renounce dead works; for of what use is believing without good works? The merit of good works does not, however, bring to faith, but faith begins, that good works may follow.
It was a flaking scab on a fleshy field of neglect.
Your hooves have stamped at the black margin of the wood,
Even where horrible green parrots call and swing.
My works are all stamped down into the sultry mud.
The brank, or scold's bridle, was unknown in America in its English shape: though from colonial records we learn that scolding women were far too plentiful, and were gagged for that annoying and irritating habit.
My secret world of bosom sculpting is crashing down around me. I'm destined for bra-stuffing rehab in a distant boobicus minimus land. I just know it.
If I can't be in bed with Jack Hamma at least I can be in bed with Jane Austen
THE GRACKLE
The
The bed is a bundle of paradoxes: we go to it with reluctance, yet we quit it with regret; we make up our minds every night to leave it early, but we make up our bodies every morning to keep it late.
I can't bear to look at my bed without seeing you in it.
Fingering spots where they had been torn or punctured by boarhound teeth.
I hereby certify that the bearer of this note, Nikolai Ivanovich, spent the night in question at Satan's ball, having been lured there in a transportational capacity ... Hella, put in parentheses! And write 'hog.' Signed- Behemoth.
All I can think about is bed." "We're sharing the same thought." "You're thinking about bed too?" "I'm thinking about YOU in MY bed.
When you're a bed wetter there's only one group of people you can feel better than, bed shitters, and unfortunately they're hard to come by.
Cover that bosom that I must not see: souls are wounded by such things.
Watching you at work, I was reminded of the young lady of Natchez, whose clothes were all tatters and patches. In alluding to which, she would say, Well, Ah itch, and wherever ah itches, Ah scratches.
The bed in which we spend a third of our lives functions as a kind of protective haven for the true self, the subconscious refuge from the assault of the external world. The bed becomes the restorative womb, where the imagination is nurtured while our resting bodies are safe.
O bid me mount and sail up there
Amid the cloudy wrack,
For Peg and Meg and Paris' love
That had so straight a back,
Are gone away, and some that stay
Have changed their silk for sack.
You're a bum-rag covered in clart!
The village of Wall watched the battle of wills with fascination, wondering what the outcome would be, for no one crossed Bridget Forester: she had a tongue that could, the villagers said, blister the paint from a barn door and tear the bark from an oak.
Can't sleep 'cause all the dirt make my heart hurt
room below and a bedchamber above.
The Bane
... where coxswain's dirt
and seaman's shirts
brushed bawdily upon her chest ...
From flophouse bed
To poorhouse bread,
all outhouse sorrow:
I thee wed.
As he made his way back to his estate, Baruk recalled his lone meeting with Vorcan, only a few nights after her awakening. She had entered the chamber with her usual feline grace. The wounds she had borne were long healed and she had found a new set of clothes, loose and
Confrontation while lounging in bed.
Memory, all-night's bedside tattoo artist.
No good sensible working bee listens to the advice of a bedbug on the subject of business.
You carve wounds upon my flesh and write there in salt!
I have made my bed
In charnels and on coffins, where black death
Keeps record of the trophies won
the wrinkled sleeve of the head
Not blemishes. Adornments.
In the V-shaped opening of her crape bodice Mlle. Vinteuil felt the sting of her friend's sudden kiss; ...
A winkle is just a bogey with a crash helmet on.
You can't sit on my bed," I say as he sits on my bed. "And neither can Bunce. My bed reeks of intensity and brownies.
I was dreaming of Craig Carton.
Why, look you, I am whipp'd and scourg'd with rods,
Nettled and stung with pismires[nettles], when I hear
Of this vile politician, Bolingbroke.
Lev was a clink in my armor, a crack in my wall,
O what we ben! And what we come to!
The poetry of painted collarbones and scratched bleeding knees.
Reading in bed is a self-centered act, immobile, free from ordinary social conventions, invisible to the world, and one that, because it takes place between the sheets, in the realm of lust and sinful idleness, has something of the thrill of things forbidden.
Even
The bed of love, that in the imagination
Had seemed to be the giver of all peace,
Is no more than a wine-cup in the tasting,
And as soon finished.
To read in bed is to draw around us invisible, noiseless curtains. Then at last we are in a room of our own and are ready to burrow back, back to that private life of the imagination we all led as a child and to whose secret satisfactions so many of us have mislaid the key.
Our bed of love is like a glove,
tender and warm, that we creep into
The stillness and stasis of bed are the perfect opposite of travel: inertia is what I've come to consider the default mode, existentially and electronically speaking. Bed, its utter inactivity, offers a glimpse of eternity, without the drawback of being dead.
Down the endless halls of quilt
My silver thread of tears is split.
My fingerbone the key that broke
My blood the oil that smooth the lock.
Tis but a scratch!"
"A scratch? Your arm's off!"
"No it isn't."
"Then what's that?"
"Oh come on, pansy!