It's a great comfort to some people to groan over their imaginary ills.

Come forward, some great marshal, and organize equality in society, and your rod shall swallow up all the juggling old court gold-sticks

Oh, those women! They nurse and cuddle their presentiments, and make darlings of their ugliest thoughts.

Next to eating good dinners, a healthy man with a benevolent turn of mind, must like, I think, to read about them.

Ho, pretty page, with the dimpled chin That never has known the barber's shear, All your wish is woman to win, This is the way that boys begin. Wait till you come to Forty Year.

It's a great comfort to some people to groan over their imaginary ills.

Who has not remarked the readiness with which the closest of friends and honestest of men suspect and accuse each other of cheating when they fall out on money matters? Everybody does it. Everybody is right, I suppose, and the world is a rogue.