Desperate Times Breed Desperate Measures

A Very Little Little Let Us Do And All Is Done.

Oh, God! I Have An Ill-divining Soul!

The Setting Sun, And The Music At The Close, As The Last Taste Of Sweets, Is Sweetest Last, Writ In Rememberance More Than Long Things Past.

I Cannot But Remember Such Things Were That Were Most Precious To Me.

But Shall We Wear These Glories For A Day? Or Shall They Last, And We Rejoice In Them?