Diseases desperate grown By desperate appliances are relieved, Or not at all.
The play's the thing.
The art of our necessities is strange That can make vile things precious.
When the age is in, the wit is out
No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck So many blows upon this face of mine And made no deeper wounds?
Happy thou art not; for what thou hast not, still thou strivest to get; and what thou hast, forgettest.