Nor Shall Our Cups Make

To Men Pressed By Their Wants All Change Is Ever Welcome.

Truth Is Man's Proper Good, And The Only Immortal Thing Was Given To Our Mortality To Use.

The Poet Is The Nearest Borderer Upon The Orator.

Where Dost Thou Careless Lie, Buried In Ease And Sloth? Knowledge That Sleeps, Doth Die; And This Security, It Is The Common Moth, That Eats On Wits And Arts, And Oft Destroys Them Both.

Wine It Is The Milk Of Venus, And The Poet's Horse Accounted: Ply It And You All Are Mounted.