Of the small gifts of heaven, / It seems to me a more than equal share / At birth was given / To girls with curly hair.

Ah! some love Paris, / And some Purdue. / But love is an archer with a low I.Q. / A bold, bad bowman, and innocent of pity. / So I'm in love with / New York City.

Frigidity is largely nonsense. It is this generation's catchword, one only vaguely understood and constantly misused. Frigid women are few. There is a host of diffident and slow-ripening ones.

Happiness puts on as many shapes as discontent, and there is nothing odder than the satisfaction of one's neighbor.

For the hearts of nurses are solid gold, / But their heels are flat and their hands are cold, / And their voices lilt with a lilt that's falser / Than the smile of an exhibition waltzer. / Yes, nurses can cure you, nurses restore you, / But nurses are bound that they do things for you.

If childhood is still a state, it is now chiefly a state of confusion.

This is the gist of what I know: Give advice and buy a foe.