He That Drinks Beer, Thinks

Into The Space Of One Little Hour Sins Enough May Be Conjured Up By Evil Tongues To Blast The Fame Of A Whole Life Of Virtue.

From Its Peaceful Bosom Spring None But Fond Regrets And Tender Recollections.

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.

History Fades Into Fable; Fact Becomes Clouded With Doubt And Controversy; The Inscription Molders From The Tablet: The Statue Falls From The Pedestal. Columns, Arches, Pyramids, What Are They But Heaps Of Sand; And Their Epitaphs, But Characters Written In The Dust?

He That Drinks Beer, Thinks Beer.