Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.
Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.
Let no man grumble when his friends fall off, As they will do like leaves at the first breeze; When your affairs come round, one way or t'other, Go to the coffee house, and take another.
Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter, sermons and soda water the day after.
And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!
He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.