O bed! O bed! delicious bed! That heaven upon earth to the weary head.
Comfort and indolence are cronies.
My books kept me from the ring, the dog-pit, the tavern, and the saloon.
What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. What is the soul? It is immaterial.
The biggest bore of all is he who is overflowing with congratulations
The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!