When Falls The Coliseum, Rome Shall Fall;

That Famish'd People Must Be Slowly Nurst, And Fed By Spoonfuls, Else They Always Burst.

The Sight Of Blood To Crowds Begets The Thirst Of More, As The First Wine-cup Leads To The Long Revel.

Few Things Surpass Old Wine; And They May Preach Who Please, The More Because They Preach In Vain

Nothing Can Confound A Wise Man More Than Laughter From A Dunce.

Oh, Talk Not To Me Of A Name Great In Story; The Days Of Our Youth Are The Days Of Our Glory; And The Myrtle And Ivy Of Sweet Two-and-twenty Are Worth All Your Laurels, Though Ever So Plenty.