When I Drink, I Think; And When

Hungry Bellies Have No Ears. [fr., La Ventre Affame N'point D'oreilles.]

But Where Are The Snows Of Last Year? That Was The Greatest Concern Of Villon, The Parisian Poet.

Parisians Are So Besotted, So Silly And So Naturally Inept That A Street Player, A Seller Of Indulgences, A Mule With Its Cymbals,a Fiddler In The Middle Of A Crossroads, Will Draw More People Than Would A Good Evangelist Preacher.

If In Your Soil It Takes, To Heaven A Thousand Thousand Thanks Be Given; And Say With France, It Goodly Goes, Where The Pantagruelion Grows.

There Are More Old Drunkards Than Old Physicians.