You know we poor artists have to show ourselves in society from time to time, just to remind the public that we are not savages.
The only thing that can console one for being poor is extravagance.
The man with a clear conscience probably has a poor memory.
As for the virtuous poor, one can pity them of course, but one cannot possibly admire them.
Yes; poor Bunbury is a dreadful invalid. Well, I must say, Algernon, that I think it is high time that Mr. Bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. This shillyshallying with the question is absurd.
You have never been poor, and never known what ambition is.
You know I have loved him always. But we are very poor. Who, being loved, is poor? Oh, no one. I hate my riches. They are a burden...
He did not wear his scarlet coat, For blood and wine are red, And blood and wine were on his hands When they found him with the dead, The poor dead woman whom he loved, And murdered in her bed