The Barge She Sat In, Like A

Time Travels At Different Speeds For Different People. I Can Tell You Who Time Strolls For, Who It Trots For, Who It Gallops For, And Who It Stops Cold For.

I Am Ill At These Numbers.

Kent. Where's The King? Gent. Contending With The Fretful Elements; Bids The Wind Blow The Earth Into The Sea, Or Swell The Curled Waters 'bove The Main, That Things Might Change Or Cease; Tears His White Hair, Which The Impetuous Blasts, With Eyeless Rage, Catch In Their Fury And Make Nothing Of; Strives In His Little World Of Man To Outscorn The To-and-fro-conflicting Wind And Rain. This Night, Wherein The Cub-drawn Bear Would Couch, The Lion And The Belly-pinched Wolf Keep Their Fur Dry, Unbonneted He Runs, And Bids What Will Take All.

Kiss Me, Kate, We Shall Be Married O'sunday

Greatness Knows Itself.