Wine Lets No Lover Unrewarded

Speed The Soft Intercourse From Soul To Soul, And Waft A Sigh From Indus To The Pole.

In Lazy Apathy Let Stoics Boast, Their Virtue Fix'd: 't Is Fix'd As In A Frost; Contracted All, Retiring To The Breast; But Strength Of Mind Is Exercise, Not Rest.

Lo! The Poor Indian, Whose Untutored Mind Sees God In Clouds, Or Hears Him In The Wind.

No More Was Seen The Human Form Divine.

Know Then This Truth, Enough For Man To Know Virtue Alone Is Happiness Below.