“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.”

Plant no tree sooner than the vine.

Tis said that wrath is the last thing in a man to grow old.

Wine is a peep-hole on a man.

One that hath wine as a chain about his wits, such a one lives no life at all.

Fighting men are the city’s fortress.

Not houses finely roofed or the stones of walls well builded, nay nor canals and dockyards make the city, but men able to use their opportunity.

Not well-built walls, but brave citizens are the bulwark of the city.

Brave men are a city’s strongest tower of defence.

At about the age of ten, my friends and I discovered the joys of sitting in graveyards drinking merrydown cider and kissing and stealing our elder siblings’ records.

My secret is one the world needs to know – nearly a billion people a year die from unsafe drinking water.

Before I met her, I drank and swore without reason… now I have a reason.

Drink today, and drown all sorrow; You shall perhaps not do it tomorrow; Best, while you have it, use your breath; There is no drinking after death.

I ate healthily, but there was no snacking, no drinking, no bread, no sugar, no smoking. Afterwards I had a pork belly roast.

Let those that merely talk and never think, That live in the wild anarchy of drink

The truth is that at the end of the day, unless you’ve generated some sort of lead, you go home and get on with the important things in life – like drinking and sleeping, and if you’re lucky, a relationship with the gender and sexual orientation of your choice.

Nor shall our cups make any guilty men; But at our parting, we will be, as when We innocently met.