Nothing Feebler Does Earth Nurture Than Man,

Two Urns On Jove's High Throne Have Ever Stood, The Source Of Evil One, And One Of Good; From Thence The Cup Of Mortal Man He Fills, Blessings To These, To Those Distributes Ills; To Most He Mingles Both.

I Only Hope Those Rumors I Hear About What Goes On In Prison Are Greatly Exaggerated.

Wine Can Of Their Wits The Wise Beguile, Make The Sage Frolic, And The Serious Smile

Just Once I'd Like Someone To Call Me 'sir' Without Adding 'you're Making A Scene.'

Marge, When I Join An Underground Cult I Expect A Little Support From My Family.