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 Whether you would abide or go away,

Wine will befriend you, friend; for, if you stay,

You'll forget going; and, if you must go,

He'll drown you in the very sweetest way.

Some that would leave this world take dreadful means:

One wrenching poisons, one steel, another leans

His brow on sudden fire; but wine is best—

Poets have died so, and many kings and queens.

Wine is the tender friend of suicides,

You drown so softly in its gentle tides;

You know not you are dying, yet you die;

And love with rose-leaves all the ruin hides.

Once in the tavern you have reached the end,

No more to fear from enemy—or friend;

No more to hope, no more to do or say,

Nothing to pray for—nothing to pretend.