The wit knows that his place is at the tail of a procession.
All human rules are more or less idiotic.
Give an Irishman lager for a month and he's a dead man. An Irishman's stomach is lined with copper, and the beer corrodes it. But whiskey polishes the copper and is the saving of him.
I am not one of those who in expressing opinions confine themselves to facts.
Pity is for the living, envy is for the dead.
He was a solemn, unsmiling, sanctimonious old iceberg who looked like he was waiting for a vacancy in the Trinity.