Thiar ain't no sense In gittin' riled!
If, of all words of tongue and pen, The saddest are, It might have been,' More sad are these we daily see: 'It is, but hadn't ought to be!'
A bird in the hand is a certainty, but a bird in the bush may sing.
One big vice in a man is apt to keep out a great many smaller ones.
Nobody shoulders a rifle in defense of a boarding house.
The delicate thought, that cannot find expression, For ruder speech too fair, That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, And scatters on the air.