When the idle poor, Become the idle rich, You'll never know, Just who is who, Or who is which.
Leave the atom alone.
Songs are the pulse of a nation's heart. A fever chart of its health.
The greatest romance in the life of a lyricist is when the right word meets the right note; often, however, a Park Avenue phrase elopes with a Bleecker Street chord, resulting in a shotgun wedding and a quickie divorce.
April in Paris, chestnuts in blossom, holiday tables under the trees.
Virtue is its own revenge.