There's Small Choice In Rotten Apples.

Why, What's The Matter, That You Have Such A February Face, So Full Of Frost, Of Storm And Cloudiness?

He That Is Giddy Thinks The World Turns Round.

O, But They Say, The Tongues Of Dying Men Enforce Attention, Like Deep Harmony: Where Words Are Scarce, They Are Seldom Spent In Vain: For They Breathe Truth, That Breathe Their Words In Pain. He, That No More Must Say, Is Listened More Than They Whom Youth And Ease Have Taught To Gloze; More Are Men's Ends Marked, Than Their Lives Before: The Setting Sun, And Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last; Writ In Rememberance More Than Things Long Past

You Must Not Think That We Are Made Of Stuff So Fat And Dull That We Can Let Our Beard Be Shook With Danger And Think It Pastime.

Love Laughs At Locksmiths.