Never Did A Great Man Hate Good

I Drink No More Than A Sponge.

How Comes It That You Curse, Frere Jean? It's Only, Said The Monk, In Order To Embellish My Language. They Are The Colors Of Ciceronian Rhetoric.

The Lord Forbid That I Should Be Out Of Debt, As If Indeed I Could Not Be Trusted.

I Am Going To Seek A Grand Perhaps.

A Little Rain Beats Down A Big Wind. Long Drinking Bouts Break Open The Tun(der).