The Man Does Better Who Runs From

Shame Is No Comrade For The Poor, I Weet.

Goddess-nurse Of The Young, Give Ear To My Prayer, And Grant That This Woman May Reject The Love-embraces Of Youth And Dote On Grey-haired Old Men Whose Powers Are Dulled, But Whose Hearts Still Desire.

Ill Fares The State Where Many Masters Rule; Let One Be Lord, One King Supreme.

The Stars Never Lie, But The Astrologers Lie About The Stars.

The Wine Urges Me On, The Bewitching Wine, Which Sets Even A Wise Man To Singing And To Laughing Gently And Rouses Him Up To Dance And Brings Forth Words Which Were Better Unspoken.