Discourse, The Sweeter Banquet Of The Mind.

Bad Herdsmen Waste The Flocks Which Thou Hast Left Behind.

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

And His Good Wife Will Tear Her Cheeks In Grief, His Sons Are Orphans And He, Soaking The Soil Red With His Own Blood, He Rots Away Himself-more Birds Than Women Flocking Round His Body!

The Chance Of War Is Equal, And The Slayer Oft Is Slain.

From Now On Walking Is My Beer And Feeling Good Is My Hangover.