Bless thy five wits

Do you think I would leave you fishing, when there's room in my four for six of one and half a dozen of the other, woman on the verge of a nervous ticking away from it all or nothing but the best in the west winds of war of words to the wise old owl.

    Gibberish was a little fish,
    Its noses were green and sorrow.
    It planted a man
    On the top of a van
    And it sang like there's no tomorrow.

(TODAY IS THE TOMORROW YOU WORRIED ABOUT YESTERDAY...

AND ALL IS FISH.) Always now. And again is as good as a gift horse. "Neigh, Neigh and thrice neigh" quoth the gift horse. "Stop messing around," his friend replied, sighed and nearly died — for in that sleep of death what dreams may come, when we have left the kettle on the boil. Double, double, toil or quits. Bless thy five wits, Tom's a-cold and a nod's as good as a wink to toe of bat and eye of newt. What can one say? Two.