Ill Fares The State Where Many Masters

Wine Gives Strength To Weary Men.

By Jove The Stranger And The Poor Are Sent, And What To Those We Give, To Jove Is Lent.

Why So Much Grief For Me? No Man Will Hurl Me Down To Death, Against My Fate. And Fate? No One Alive Has Ever Escaped It, Neither Brave Man Nor Coward, I Tell You - It’s Born With Us The Day That We Are Born.

We Battle On In Words, As Always, Mere Words, And What's The Cure? We Cannot Find A Thing.

Beyond His Strength No Man Can Fight, Although He Be Eager.