The rich man has his motorcar, His country and his town estate, He smokes a fifty-cent cigar And jeers at Fate. He frivols through the livelong day, He knows not Poverty, her pinch. His lot seems light, his heart seems gay; He has a cinch. Yet though my lamp burns low and dim, Though I must slave for livelihood- Think you that I would change with him? You bet I would!

Drinking is bad taste but tastes good.

And of all glad words of prose or rhyme, The gladdest are Act while there yet is time

Having imagination, it takes you an hour to write a paragraph that, if you were unimaginative, would take you only a minute. Or you might not write the paragraph at all.

Middle age occurs when you are too young to take up golf and too old to rush up to the net.

If a man keeps his trap shut, the world will beat a path to his door.

I find that a great part of the information I have was acquired by looking up something and finding something else on the way.