Give up the dream that Love may trick the fates To live again somewhere beyond the gleam Of dying stars, or shatter the strong gates Some god has builded high; give up the dream.

An old stomach reforms more whiskey drinkers than a new resolve.

When a man tells you that he got rich through hard work, ask him: 'Whose?'

There is always a comforting thought in time of trouble when it is not our trouble.

By the time a bartender knows what drink a man will have before he orders, there is little else about him worth knowing.

Between the years of ninety-two and a hundred and two, however, we shall be the ribald, useless, drunken, outcast person we have always wished to be. We shall have a long white beard and long white hair; we shall not walk at all, but recline in a wheel chair and bellow for alcoholic beverages; in the winter we shall sit before the fire with our feet in a bucket of hot water, a decanter of corn whiskey near at hand, and write ribald songs against organized society... We look forward to a disreputable, vigorous, unhonoured, and disorderly old age.

It is a cheering thought to think that God is on the side of the best digestion.