The mad is either insane or he is composing verses.
Though your threshing floor grind a hundred thousand bushels of corn, not for that reason will your stomach hold more than mine.
From the egg to the apple.
Lighten grief with hopes of a brighter morrow; Temper joy, in fear of a change of fortune.
Poets wish to profit or to please.
All singers have this fault: if asked to sing among friends they are never so inclined; if unasked, they never leave off.