One that hath wine as a chain about his wits, such a one lives no life at all.
Not well-built walls, but brave citizens are the bulwark of the city.
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.
Tis said that wrath is the last thing in a man to grow old.
Wine is a peep-hole on a man.
Plant no tree sooner than the vine.