Desperate Times Breed Desperate Measures

And Sleep, That Sometime Shuts Up Sorrow's Eye, Steal Me Awhile From Mine Own Company.

A Good Leg Will Fall; A Straight Back Will Stoop; A Black Beard Will Turn White; A Curl'd Pate Will Grow Bald; A Fair Face Will Wither; A Full Eye Will Wax Hollow: But A Good Heart, Kate, Is The Sun And The Moon; Or, Rather, The Sun, And Not The Moon, — For It Shines Bright, And Never Changes, But Keeps His Course Truly.

Well Could He Ride, And Often Men Would Say, "that Horse His Mettle From His Rider Takes: Proud Of Subjection, Noble By The Sway, What Rounds, What Bounds, What Course, What Stop He Makes!" And Controversy Hence A Question Takes, Whether The Horse By Him Became His Deed, Or He His Manage By The Well-doing Steed.

These Times Of Woe Afford No Time To Woo.

All The World's A Stage, And All The Men And Women Mearly Players.