The farmer's daughter hath soft brown hair (Butter and eggs and a pound of cheese) And I met with a ballad, I can't say where, That wholly consisted of lines like these.

Read not Milton, for he is dry; nor Shakespeare, for he wrote of common life.

I cannot sing the old songs now! It is not that I deem them low, 'Tis that I can't remember how They go.

I've read in many a novel, that unless they've souls that grovel-- Folks prefer in fact a hovel to your dreary marble halls.

I know you've been married to the same woman for 69 years. That is marvelous. It must be very inexpensive.

To sit, happy married lovers; Phillis trifling with a plover's Egg, while Corydon uncovers with a grace the Sally Lunn, Or dissects the luck pheasant--that, I think, were passing pleasant As I sit along at present, dreaming darkly of a dun.