Drink Is The Feast Of Reason And

All Nature Is But Art Unknown To Thee.

Is That A Birthday? 'tis, Alas! Too Clear; 'tis But The Funeral Of The Former Year.

Destroy All Creatures For Thy Sport Or Gust, Yet Cry, If Man's Unhappy, God's Unjust.

Sleep And Death, Two Twins Of Winged Race, Of Matchless Swiftness, But Of Silent Pace.

Not To Go Back Is Somewhat To Advance, And Men Must Walk, At Least, Before They Dance.