How ingenious is self-deception
If such be a sin, “then heaven help the wicked”
Indifferent to the many rebuffs she momentarily encountered
Involuntary satisfaction at some apparent obstacle to my path
Jaunting-cars, with three on a side and “one in the well”
Least important functionaries took the greatest airs upon them
Levelling character of a taste for play
Listen to reason, as they would call it in Ireland
Memory of them when hallowed by time or distance
Might almost excite compassion even in an enemy
Misfortune will find you out, if ye were hid in a tay chest
Mistaking zeal for inclination
Mistaking your abstraction for attention
My English proves me Irish
My French always shows me to be English
Never able to restrain myself from a propensity to make love
Nine-inside leathern “conveniency,” bumping ten miles an hour
No equanimity like his who acts as your second in a duel
Nothing seemed extravagant to hopes so well founded
Nothing ever makes a man so agreeable as the belief that he is
Now, young ladies, come along, and learn something, if you can
Oh, the distance is nothing, but it is the pace that kills
Opportunely been so overpowered as to fall senseless
Other bottle of claret that lies beyond the frontier of prudence
Packed jury of her relatives, who rarely recommend you to mercy
Pleased are we ever to paint the past according to our own fancy
Profoundly and learnedly engaged in discussing medicine
Profuse in his legends of his own doings in love and war
Rather better than people with better coats on them
Rather a dabbler in the “ologies”
Recovered as much of their senses as the wine had left them
Respectable heir-loom of infirmity
Seems ever to accompany dullness a sustaining power of vanity
Sixteenthly, like a Presbyterian minister’s sermon
Stoicism which preludes sending your friend out of the world
Strong opinions against tobacco within doors
Suppose I have laughed at better men than ever he was
Sure if he did, doesn’t he take it out o’ me in the corns? 
That vanity which wine inspires
That “to stand was to fall,”
That land of punch, priests, and potatoes
The divil a bit better she was nor a pronoun
The tone of assumed compassion
The “fat, fair, and forty” category
There are unhappily impracticable people in the world
There is no infatuation like the taste for flirtation
They were so perfectly contented with their self-deception
Time, that ‘pregnant old gentleman,’ will disclose all
Unwashed hands, and a heavy gold ring upon his thumb
Vagabond if Providence had not made me a justice of the peace
We pass a considerable portion of our lives in a mimic warfare
What will not habit accomplish
What we wish, we readily believe
What we wish we readily believe
When you pretended to be pleased, unluckily, I believed you
Whenever he was sober his poverty disgusted him
Whiskey, the appropriate liquor in all treaties of this nature
Whose paraphrase of the book of Job was refused
Wretched, gloomy-looking picture of woe-begone poverty