There's No Taking Trout With Dry Breeches.

I Had Rather Munch A Crust Of Brown Bread And An Onion In A Corner, Without Any More Ado Or Ceremony, Than Feed Upon Turkey At Another Man?s Table, Where One Is Fain To Sit Mincing And Chewing His Meat An Hour Together, Drink Little, Be Always Wiping His Fingers And His Chops, And Never Dare To Cough Nor Sneeze, Though He Has Never So Much A Mind To It, Nor Do A Many Things Which A Body May Do Freely By One?s Self.

Nay, What Is Worse, Perhaps Turn Poet, Which, They Say, Is An Infectious And Incurable Distemper.

The Phoenix Hope, Can Wing Her Way Through The Desert Skies, And Still Defying Fortune's Spite; Revive From Ashes And Rise.

The Wicked Are Always Ungrateful.

A Little In One's Own Pocket Is Better Than Much In Another Man's Purse.