And His Best Riches, Ignorance Of Wealth.

I Hate The French Because They Are All Slaves And Wear Wooden Shoes.

Near Yonder Thorn, That Lifts Its Head On High, Where Once The Sign-post Caught The Passing Eye, Low Lies That House Where Nut-brown Draughts Inspired, Where Graybeard Mirth And Smiling Toil Retired, Where Village Statesmen Talk'd With Looks Profound, And News Much Older Than Their Ale Went Round.

The Folly Of Others Is Ever Most Ridiculous To Those Who Are Themselves Most Foolish.

Crimes Generally Punish Themselves.

He Who Fights And Runs Away May Live To Fight Another Day.