It Is My Feeling That

Wait A Second While I Take A Swig Off This Bottle: It's My True And Only Helicon, My Caballine Fount, My Sole Enthusiasm. Here, Drinking, I Deliberate, I Reason, I Resolve And Conclude. After The Epilogue I Laugh, I Write, I Compose, I Drink. Ennius Drinking Would Write, Writing Would Drink.

How Comes It That You Curse, Frere Jean? It's Only, Said The Monk, In Order To Embellish My Language. They Are The Colors Of Ciceronian Rhetoric.

In Their Rules There Was Only One Clause: Do What You Will.

Petite Ville, Grand Renom. Small Town, Great Renown.

Indeed, Said The Monk, A Mass, A Matins, And Vespers Well Rung Are Half-said.