Time And Tide Wait For No Man.

Go, Little Booke! Go, My Little Tragedie!

Whan That Aprill With His Shoures Soote The Droghte Of March Hath Perced To The Roote.

Remember In The Forms Of Speech Comes Change Within A Thousand Years, And Words That Then Were Well Esteemed, Seem Foolish Now And Strange; And Yet They Spake Them So, Time And Again, And Thrived In Love As Well As Any Men; And So To Win Their Loves In Sundry Days, In Sundry Lands There Are As Many Ways.

Who Then May Trust The Dice, At Fortune's Throw?

He Who Accepts His Poverty Unhurt I'd Say Is Rich Although He Lacked A Shirt. But Truly Poor Are They Who Whine And Fret And Covet What They Cannot Hope To Get.