Wine Is A Peep-hole On A Man.

Tis Said That Wrath Is The Last Thing In A Man To Grow Old.

One That Hath Wine As A Chain About His Wits, Such A One Lives No Life At All.

Not Houses Finely Roofed Or The Stones Of Walls Well Builded, Nay Nor Canals And Dockyards Make The City, But Men Able To Use Their Opportunity.

To Be Bowed By Grief Is Folly; Naught Is Gained By Melancholy; Better Than The Pain Of Thinking, Is To Steep The Sense In Drinking.

Fighting Men Are The City's Fortress.