Desperate Times Breed Desperate Measures

The Weakest Goes To The Wall.

Angels And Ministers Of Grace Defend Us! Be Thou A Spirit Of Health, Or Goblin Damn'd, Bring With Thee Airs From Heaven, Or Blasts From Hell, Be Thy Intents Wicked, Or Charitable, Thou Com'st In Such A Questionable Shape, That I Will Speak To Thee.

It Is A Basilisk Unto Mine Eye, Kills Me To Look On't.

Now Is The Winter Of Our Discontent Made Glorious Summer By This Sun Of York; And All The Clouds That Lour'd Upon Our House In The Deep Bosom Of The Ocean Buried.

He That Keeps Not Crust Nor Crum Weary Of All, Shall Want Some.