Eventually, Virgil, Horace, Aeschylus are sacrificed with relief to goddess of idleness. Seemed only to respire elegiac metrics and fair idyllic verses for months, now my consciousness bespeaks to dear Arthur anew. Occasionally, rakish spirits of his lyrics illumes around, dawning upon faded out ones and I am genuinely on the laugh. Devilish enchanting the French - à vue d'œil la leur vie bat son plein de tout temps!


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