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 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.

Plant no tree sooner than the vine.

One that hath wine as a chain about his wits, such a one lives no life at all.

Fighting men are the city's fortress.

Wine is a peep-hole on a man.

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.