On Moore the poet’s excuse to his guests that his servant was ill from the effects of a carousal.
Come, come, for trifles never stick,
Most servants have a failing,
Yours, it is true, are sometimes sick,
But mine are always aleing.
On being asked what “on the contrary” meant, when that phrase was used by a person charged with eating three eggs every morning, Luttrell’s ready retort was, “Laying them, I daresay.”
I hate the sight of monkeys, they remind one so of poor relations.
On a man run over by an omnibus.
Killed by an omnibus—why not?
So quick a death a boon is.