Difference between revisions of "Runde 807"
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{{TabellRad|807|34|[[Chuck Benton]]|[[1769]]|[[djsturm]]}} | {{TabellRad|807|34|[[Chuck Benton]]|[[1769]]|[[djsturm]]}} | ||
{{TabellRad|807|35|[[Aarne Heino]]|[[djsturm]]|[[Artaxerxes]]}} | {{TabellRad|807|35|[[Aarne Heino]]|[[djsturm]]|[[Artaxerxes]]}} | ||
| − | {{TabellRad|807|36|[[]]|[[Artaxerxes]]|[[]]}} | + | {{TabellRad|807|36|[[Imogen Cunningham]], [[Twinka Thiebaud]]|[[Artaxerxes]]|[[Boccherini]]}} |
| − | {{TabellRad|807|37|[[]]|[[]]|[[]]}} | + | {{TabellRad|807|37|[[]]|[[Boccherini]]|[[]]}} |
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Revision as of 12:11, 3 December 2018
HF807 - Let copulation thrive!
Trådtittelen er et sitat fra skuespillet King Lear av William Shakespeare fra 1606:
Ay, every inch a king:
When I do stare, see how the subject quakes.
I pardon that man's life.
What was thy cause? Adultery?
Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:
The wren goes to 't, and the small gilded fly
Does lecher in my sight.
Let copulation thrive;
for Gloucester's bastard son
Was kinder to his father than my daughters
Got 'tween the lawful sheets.
To 't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers.
Behold yond simpering dame,
Whose face between her forks presages snow;
That minces virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure's name;
The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to 't
With a more riotous appetite.
Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above:
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends';
There's hell, there's darkness,
there's the sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption;
fie, fie, fie! pah, pah!
Give me an ounce of civet,
good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination:
there's money for thee.
Ay, every inch a king:
When I do stare, see how the subject quakes.
I pardon that man's life.
What was thy cause? Adultery?
Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:
The wren goes to 't, and the small gilded fly
Does lecher in my sight.
Let copulation thrive;
for Gloucester's bastard son
Was kinder to his father than my daughters
Got 'tween the lawful sheets.
To 't, luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers.
Behold yond simpering dame,
Whose face between her forks presages snow;
That minces virtue, and does shake the head
To hear of pleasure's name;
The fitchew, nor the soiled horse, goes to 't
With a more riotous appetite.
Down from the waist they are Centaurs,
Though women all above:
But to the girdle do the gods inherit,
Beneath is all the fiends';
There's hell, there's darkness,
there's the sulphurous pit,
Burning, scalding, stench, consumption;
fie, fie, fie! pah, pah!
Give me an ounce of civet,
good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination:
there's money for thee.
?? oppgaver, ?? innlegg, ?? poengtagere.
Startet av: Boccherini 19.11.18 10:44
Vunnet av: ??, slutt ??
Sluttstilling:
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