Freedom Which In No Other Land Will

Riches Cannot Rescue From The Grave, Which Claims Alike The Monarch And The Slave.

Of No Distemper, Of No Blast He Died, But Fell Like Autumn Fruit That Mellow'd Long: Even Wonder'd At, Because He Dropp'd No Sooner. Fate Seem'd To Wind Him Up For Fourscore Years; Yet Freshly Ran He On Ten Winters More; Till Like A Clock Worn Out With Eating Time, The Wheels Of Weary Life At Last Stood Still.

To Take Up Half On Trust, And Half To Try, Name It Not Faith But Bungling Bigotry.

For Danger Levels Man And Brute And All Are Fellows In Their Need.

Bacchus Ever Fair And Young, Drinking Joys Did First Ordain. Bachus's Blessings Are A Treasure, Drinking Is The Soldier's Pleasure, Rich The Treasure, Sweet The Pleasure- Sweet Is Pleasure After Pain.