My motto is: Contented with little, yet wishing for more.
The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.
Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving.
A laugh is worth a hundred groans in any market.
The drinking man is never less himself than during his sober intervals.
Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.