I shall not wholly die, and a great part of me will escape the grave.
I hate the irreverent rabble and keep them far from me.
Our years Glide silently away. No tears, No loving orisons repair The wrinkled cheek, the whitening hair That drop forgotten to the tomb.
There is no such thing as perfect happiness.
Be this our wall of brass, to be conscious of having done no evil, and to grow pale at no accusation.
Think of the wonders uncorked by wine! It opens secrets, gives heart to our hopes, pushes the cowardly into battle, lifts the load from anxious minds, and evokes talents. Thanks to the bottle's prompting no one is lost for words, no one who's cramped by poverty fails to find release.