Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.

Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink for fellows whom it hurts to think.

Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

The average man, if he meddles with criticism at all, is a conservative critic.

They carry back bright to the coiner the mintage of man, / The lads that will die in their glory and never be old.