mythology

We follow you with responsibility and desire.
How is it now, my dear! Why are your cheeks so pale? How could the roses there wither so quickly?
As if there were no rain, I could pray them before the storm before my eyes.
If any sympathy chooses, war, death, or disease besiege them, let it be momentary like a sound, fast like a shadow, fleeting like a dream; fleeting like the lightning of a colliding night, open the world in the spleen, before it has time to say: Look!
f the true love were ever crucified, it is like the decree of fate: let us teach us experimental patience, for it is an ordinary cross, for love, thoughts and dreams, sighs, wishes and Tears, unimaginative followers.
Keep your word, dear. Look, here it comes.
My good Lysander! I swear to you with Cupid's most powerful bow, with his best golden arrow, with the simplicity of the Venus dove, Through what weave soul and love flourish, And the fire that destroyed the Queen of Carthage.
Do you think I am fair? That's fair. Demetrius loves your fair: oh happy fair! Your eyes are the stars that point the way; and the sweet air on your tongue, more attuned in the shepherd's ear than a lark, when the wheat is green, when the hawthorn sprouts appear. Illness Begins: Oh, so it is, Before I go, I shall catch you, beautiful Hermia; my ears shall catch your voice, my eyes shall catch your eyes, and my tongue shall catch the sweetness you translate to you melody.

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