Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

A Man That's Fond Precociously Of Stirring , :;:; Must Be A Spoon.

What Is Mind? No Matter. What Is Matter? Never Mind. What Is The Soul? It Is Immaterial.

A Certain Portion Of The Human Race Has Certainly A Taste For Being Diddled.

The Quaker Loves An Ample Brim, A Hat That Bows To No Salaam; And Dear The Beaver Is To Him As If It Never Made A Dam.

I Resolved That, Like The Sun, As Long As My Day Lasted, I Would Look On The Bright Side Of Everything.