My love runs by like a day in June, And he makes no friends of sorrows. He'll tread his galloping rigadoon In the pathway of the morrows. He'll live his days where the sunbeams start, Nor could storm or wind uproot him. My own dear love, he is all my heart, -- And I wish somebody'd shoot him.

That would be a good thing for them to cut on my tombstone: Wherever she went, including here, it was against her better judgment.

Flowers are heaven's masterpiece.

My first love was Cinderella, but she ran off with another man.

[When asked what was the inspiration for most of her work:] Need of money, dear.

People ought to be one of two things, young or dead.

If you don't have anything nice to say, come sit by me.