God Help Me, I'm Just Not That

Just Are The Ways Of Heaven; From Heaven Proceed The Woes Of Man: Heaven Doom'd The Greeks To Bleed.

By Jove The Stranger And The Poor Are Sent, And What To Those We Give, To Jove Is Lent.

The Wine Urges Me On, The Bewitching Wine, Which Sets Even A Wise Man To Singing And To Laughing Gently And Rouses Him Up To Dance And Brings Forth Words Which Were Better Unspoken.

Rather I'd Choose Laboriously To Bear A Weight Of Woes, And Breathe The Vital Air, A Slave To Some Poor Hind That Toils For Bread, Than Reign The Sceptred Monarch Of The Dead.

Wine Lead To Folly, Making Even The Wise To Laugh Immoderately, To Dance, And To Utter What Had Better Have Been Kept Silent.