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At the turn of the decade, the 2010s came to an end and the 2020s lay ahead, open for the revival of the culture of the 1920s.
by Put you are Name here January 13, 2020
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Get the Azid mug.There is a metaplan in the folder for the planning of the game-playing, which you could look at if you don't know what to do.
by Put you are Name here April 16, 2020
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Over Morton was sometimes spelled ”ourmorrow”, and this spelling attempts to reflect that archaic pronunciation.
Over Morton was sometimes spelled ”ourmorrow”, and this spelling attempts to reflect that archaic pronunciation.
O’ermorrow is Tuesday.
by Put you are Name here February 16, 2020
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by Put you are Name here June 26, 2017
Get the Dyke mug.Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring,
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives that Tybalt would have slain,
And Tybalt’s dead that would have slain my husband.
All this is comfort, wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,
That murd’red me; I would forget it fain,
But O, it presses to my memory
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds:
“Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.”
That “banished,” that one word “banished,”
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death
Was woe enough if it had ended there;
Or if sour woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank’d with other griefs,
Why followed not, when she said, “Tybalt’s dead,”
Thy father or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have moved?
But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,
“Romeo is banished”: to speak that word,
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead: “Romeo is banished”!
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.
Where is my father and my mother, nurse?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours wife, have mangled it?
But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband.
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring,
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives that Tybalt would have slain,
And Tybalt’s dead that would have slain my husband.
All this is comfort, wherefore weep I then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,
That murd’red me; I would forget it fain,
But O, it presses to my memory
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds:
“Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.”
That “banished,” that one word “banished,”
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death
Was woe enough if it had ended there;
Or if sour woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank’d with other griefs,
Why followed not, when she said, “Tybalt’s dead,”
Thy father or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have moved?
But with a rearward following Tybalt’s death,
“Romeo is banished”: to speak that word,
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead: “Romeo is banished”!
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word’s death, no words can that woe sound.
Where is my father and my mother, nurse?
by Put you are Name here May 9, 2017
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