Plant no tree sooner than the vine.
Tis said that wrath is the last thing in a man to grow old.
Wine is a peep-hole on a man.
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.
Not well-built walls, but brave citizens are the bulwark of the city.