The Pleasure Of The Senses Is Always

What We Are Doing Here Is Only The Image Of What We Would Like To Do.

Thread Of Their Days Without Pity, And In The Midst Of Life, Without Ever Concerning Themselves With This Fatal Moment, Living As Though They Were To Exist For Ever, They Disappear Into The Obscure Cloud Of Immortality, Uncertain Of The Fate Which Lies In Store For Them.

Are Your Convictions So Fragile That Mine Cannot Stand In Opposition To Them? Is Your God So Illusory That The Presence Of My Devil Reveals His Insufficiency?

One Weeps Not Save When One Is Afraid, And That Is Why Kings Are Tyrants.

She Had Already Allowed Her Delectable Lover To Pluck That Flower Which, So Different From The Rose To Which It Is Nevertheless Sometimes Compared, Has Not The Same Faculty Of Being Reborn Each Spring.