Small sorrows speak great ones are silent.
War I abhor, and yet how sweet The sound along the marching street Of drum and fife, and I forget Wet eyes of widows, and forget Broken old mothers, and the whole Dark butchery without a soul.
It is the sign of a weak mind to be unable to bear wealth.
You roll my log, and I will roll yours.
I was shipwrecked before I got aboard.
The comfort of having a friend may be taken away, but not that of having had one.