Let Each Man Have According To His

This Wine Is Forty Years Old. It Certainly Doesn't Show Its Age.

Yield, Ye Arms, To The Toga; To Civic Praise, Ye Laurels.

Death Darkens His Eyes, And Unplumes His Wings, Yet The Sweetest Song Is The Last He Sings: Live So, My Love, That When Death Shall Come, Swan-like And Sweet It May Waft Thee Home.

Trust No One Unless You Have Eaten Much Salt With Him.

There Is No One Who Can Give You Wiser Advice Than You Can Give Yourself: You Will Never Make A Slip, If You Listen To Your Own Heart.