Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!

To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.

The Quaker loves an ample brim, A hat that bows to no salaam; And dear the beaver is to him As if it never made a dam.

Extremes meet', as the whiting said with its tail in its mouth.

There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm further off from heaven Than when I was a boy.

Comfort and indolence are cronies.