Seeing ourselves as others see us would probably confirm our worst suspicions about them.

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!

Seeing ourselves as others see us would probably confirm our worst suspicions about them.

There is no accounting for tastes, as the woman said when someone told her her son was wanted by the police.

I hate the pollyanna pest who says that all is for the best.

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.

In the order named, these are the hardest to control - wine, women and song.