Thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife!

Men judge by the complexion of the sky The state and inclination of the day.

Ay me! for aught that ever I could read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.

Fear no more the heat o' th' sun Nor the furious winters' rages; Thou thy worldly task hast done, Home art gone, and ta'en thy wages. Golden lads and girls all must, As chimney-sweepers, come to dust.

They are but beggars that can count their worth.

There is Throats to be cut, and Works to be done.

Desperate times breed desperate measures