When the war of the giants is over the wars of the pygmies will begin.
As an unperfect actor upon the stageWho with much fear is put besides his partOr some fierce thing, replete with too much rageWhose strengths abundance weakens his own heartSo I, for fear of trust, forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of love's riteAnd in mine own love's strength seem to decayO'ercharged with burthen of my own love's mighto, let my books be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breastWho plead for love, and look for recompenseMore than that tongue that more hath express'd.O, learn to read what silent love hath writTo hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.
O puro espÃrito Ã© pura mentira. Enquanto o padre continuar a passar por ser uma espÃ©cie superior - o padre, esse negador, esse caluniador, esse envenenador da vida por profissÃ£o - , nÃ£o hÃ¡ resposta para a pergunta: que Ã© a verdade? A verdade fica logo colocada em cima da cabeÃ§a, se o advogado confesso do nada e da negaÃ§Ã£o passa por ser o representante da verdade...
Through wind, hail or frost my living's made. I am a lecher, and she's a lecher with me. Which one of us is better? We're both alike: The one as worthy as the other. Bad rat, bad cat. We both love filth, and filth pursues us; We flee from honor, honor flees from us, In this brothel where we ply our trade.