Shoulder The Sky, My Lad, And Drink

Tomorrow, More's The Pity, Away We Both Must Hie, To Air The Ditty And To Earth I.

But Men At Whiles Are Sober And Think By Fits And Starts. And If They Think, They Fasten Their Hands Upon Their Hearts

Strapped, Noosed, Nighing His Hour, He Stood And Counted Them And Cursed His Luck; And Then The Clock Collected In The Tower Its Strength, And Struck.

They Put Arsenic In His Meat And Stared Aghast To Watch Him Eat; They Poured Strychnine In His Cup And Shook To See Him Drink It Up.

Hope Lies To Mortals And Most Believe Her, But Man's Deceiver Was Never Mine.