Quotes like I know I can act....

I know I can act. There aren't too many other jobs I know how to do.

quote by Jack Nicholson
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I Could Make A Living Out Of Lovin You

If theres something that needs fixing
Im the man to see
Look me up, Im listed
Just check under b
If youre ever on the spot
Well, Im good with my hands
24-7 Im your handyman
Odd jobs, hard jobs, anything under the sun
Big jobs, small jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
I could make a living out of lovin you
Until the work is finished
Well, I dont get paid
I dont mind getting dirty
Thats my middle name
Im in the service business
So I understand
Call me 24-7, Im your handyman
Odd jobs, hard jobs, anything under the sun
Big jobs, small jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
If I could make a living out of lovin you
Solo
Tough jobs, rough jobs, say where and when
Ill leave you my card, call when you need me again
Odd jobs, hard jobs, baby
Chorus:
Id be a rich man, its true
If I could make a living out of lovin you
These two hands know what to do
If I could make a living out of lovin you
Id be a rich man, its true
I could make a living out of lovin you
Im a rich man
I could make a living out of lovin you

song performed by Bon Jovi
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If I Could Make A Living Out Of Loving You

song performed by Bon Jovi
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Sobre Horizontes

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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XI. Guido

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,
Abate Panciatichi—two good Tuscan names:
Acciaiuoli—ah, your ancestor it was
Built the huge battlemented convent-block
Over the little forky flashing Greve
That takes the quick turn at the foot o' the hill
Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!
'T is Ema, though, the other rivulet,
The one-arched brown brick bridge yawns over,—yes,
Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain
The Roman Gate from where the Ema's bridged:
Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend
O'erturreted by Certosa which he built,
That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!
I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood
Comes from as far a source: ought it to end
This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks
Into Rome's sink where her red refuse runs?
Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,
If there be any vile experiment
In the air,—if this your visit simply prove,
When all's done, just a well-intentioned trick,
That tries for truth truer than truth itself,
By startling up a man, ere break of day,
To tell him he must die at sunset,—pshaw!
That man's a Franceschini; feel his pulse,
Laugh at your folly, and let's all go sleep!
You have my last word,—innocent am I
As Innocent my Pope and murderer,
Innocent as a babe, as Mary's own,
As Mary's self,—I said, say and repeat,—
And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I—
Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade
Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound
That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay
His due of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross
His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,
As gallants use who go at large again!
For why? All honest Rome approved my part;
Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter,—nay,
Mistress,—had any shadow of any right
That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,
Held it with tooth and nail,—these manly men
Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me.
Then, there's the point reserved, the subterfuge
My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,
Firm should all else,—the impossible fancy!—fail,
And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day.
The knaves! One plea at least would hold,—they laughed,—
One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Allegany Camp

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[...] Read more

poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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The Cenci : A Tragedy In Five Acts

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ

Count Francesco Cenci.
Giacomo, his Son.
Bernardo, his Son.
Cardinal Camillo.
Orsino, a Prelate.
Savella, the Pope's Legate.
Olimpio, Assassin.
Marzio, Assassin.
Andrea, Servant to Cenci.
Nobles, Judges, Guards, Servants.
Lucretia, Wife of Cenci, and Step-mother of his children.
Beatrice, his Daughter.

The Scene lies principally in Rome, but changes during the Fourth Act to Petrella, a castle among the Apulian Apennines.
Time. During the Pontificate of Clement VIII.

ACT I

Scene I.
-An Apartment in the Cenci Palace.
Enter Count Cenci, and Cardinal Camillo.

Camillo.
That matter of the murder is hushed up
If you consent to yield his Holiness
Your fief that lies beyond the Pincian gate.-
It needed all my interest in the conclave
To bend him to this point: he said that you
Bought perilous impunity with your gold;
That crimes like yours if once or twice compounded
Enriched the Church, and respited from hell
An erring soul which might repent and live:-
But that the glory and the interest
Of the high throne he fills, little consist
With making it a daily mart of guilt
As manifold and hideous as the deeds
Which you scarce hide from men's revolted eyes.

Cenci.
The third of my possessions-let it go!
Ay, I once heard the nephew of the Pope
Had sent his architect to view the ground,
Meaning to build a villa on my vines
The next time I compounded with his uncle:
I little thought he should outwit me so!

[...] Read more

poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Act Nice & Gentle

You dont need no fancy clothes
Whered you get them, goodness knows?
Just show some civility.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
I dont need no luxuries,
As long as you are understanding,
Im not difficult to please.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Well Im the kind of guy who likes
To take you as I find you
So throw away those false eyelashes and,
Act nice, act nice, baby.
Come on baby, hold my hand.
Come on baby, understand, you gotta
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Come on baby, hold my hand.
Come on baby, understand, you gotta
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.
Act nice, act nice and gentle to me.

song performed by Kinks
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Accordingly

someday everyone will be wise in the future
everyone will be sensible and forward thinking
wear sensible shoes and act accordingly in the future
wise action according to everyone will be the act
of the future everyone will be futuristic someday
according to god according to everyone and their shoes
in the future everyone will be godless and free
act accordingly in the future or else
play accordions wisely in your godless future
in the future accordions will play themselves

act three in the future: there will be no accordions
everyone will get nostalgic for the accordion god
and act as if they were wise in the future
everyone will be according to god
in the future everyone will not act accordingly
wisdom is unholy in the future
to act accordingly is to stay out of trouble
in the future jails will be bigger and much better
everyone will need some punishment in the future
thinking of accordions will be a crime

lawrence welk is a revolutionary in the future
to act accordingly is to act with wisdom
everyone will act as one in the future
accordingly for everyone to act
in the future everyone will be discredited
everyone must act now to avoid the future
be wise and dont act accordingly
play accordions in the street the future cannot
wait for wisdom and forced accord
one chord might save the future

poem by Stephen Roxborough
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Act Of Faith

I tell you honestly,
Dont you go and throw your heart away
I know its so hard to do
Youve got to let go when you want to hold on
I know how much you miss him celebrate what you had
Dont cry about the things left unsaid
Itll do no good
You look for mercy and a meaning somewhere
You know that the hurting wont go
til you walk through the fire
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith
Maybe love will find its way back into your life
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Stand up, dont you fall
You just take good care of where you are
Youre thinking lifes through with you
Thats not what hed want or what you should do
I know you loved him baby celebrate who he was
I know you know youve got to go on and live your life
Go down to the river of the spirit that runs through you
And lay yourself down in the healing waters
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith
Maybe love will find its way back into your life
Love is a healer
There is no purpose served in holding on
Love is a healer
There is no understanding why
Love is a healer
There is no sin in you that brought this to your door
My love, it just is
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Heres my heart my love is in it
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith
Maybe love will find its way back into your life
Its gonna take an act of faith stand up and face the day
Its gonna take an act of faith, nobody can make you stay
Its gonna take an act of faith

[...] Read more

song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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VIII. Dominus Hyacinthus de Archangelis, Pauperum Procurator

Ah, my Giacinto, he's no ruddy rogue,
Is not Cinone? What, to-day we're eight?
Seven and one's eight, I hope, old curly-pate!
—Branches me out his verb-tree on the slate,
Amo-as-avi-atum-are-ans,
Up to -aturus, person, tense, and mood,
Quies me cum subjunctivo (I could cry)
And chews Corderius with his morning crust!
Look eight years onward, and he's perched, he's perched
Dapper and deft on stool beside this chair,
Cinozzo, Cinoncello, who but he?
—Trying his milk-teeth on some crusty case
Like this, papa shall triturate full soon
To smooth Papinianian pulp!

It trots
Already through my head, though noon be now,
Does supper-time and what belongs to eve.
Dispose, O Don, o' the day, first work then play!
—The proverb bids. And "then" means, won't we hold
Our little yearly lovesome frolic feast,
Cinuolo's birth-night, Cinicello's own,
That makes gruff January grin perforce!
For too contagious grows the mirth, the warmth
Escaping from so many hearts at once—
When the good wife, buxom and bonny yet,
Jokes the hale grandsire,—such are just the sort
To go off suddenly,—he who hides the key
O' the box beneath his pillow every night,—
Which box may hold a parchment (someone thinks)
Will show a scribbled something like a name
"Cinino, Ciniccino," near the end,
"To whom I give and I bequeath my lands,
"Estates, tenements, hereditaments,
"When I decease as honest grandsire ought."
Wherefore—yet this one time again perhaps—
Shan't my Orvieto fuddle his old nose!
Then, uncles, one or the other, well i' the world,
May—drop in, merely?—trudge through rain and wind,
Rather! The smell-feasts rouse them at the hint
There's cookery in a certain dwelling-place!
Gossips, too, each with keepsake in his poke,
Will pick the way, thrid lane by lantern-light,
And so find door, put galligaskin off
At entry of a decent domicile
Cornered in snug Condotti,—all for love,
All to crush cup with Cinucciatolo!

Well,
Let others climb the heights o' the court, the camp!

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
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Third Book

'TO-DAY thou girdest up thy loins thyself,
And goest where thou wouldest: presently
Others shall gird thee,' said the Lord, 'to go
Where thou would'st not.' He spoke to Peter thus,
To signify the death which he should die
When crucified head downwards.
If He spoke
To Peter then, He speaks to us the same;
The word suits many different martyrdoms,
And signifies a multiform of death,
Although we scarcely die apostles, we,
And have mislaid the keys of heaven and earth.

For tis not in mere death that men die most;
And, after our first girding of the loins
In youth's fine linen and fair broidery,
To run up hill and meet the rising sun,
We are apt to sit tired, patient as a fool,
While others gird us with the violent bands
Of social figments, feints, and formalisms,
Reversing our straight nature, lifting up
Our base needs, keeping down our lofty thoughts,
Head downward on the cross-sticks of the world.
Yet He can pluck us from the shameful cross.
God, set our feet low and our forehead high,
And show us how a man was made to walk!

Leave the lamp, Susan, and go up to bed.
The room does very well; I have to write
Beyond the stroke of midnight. Get away;
Your steps, for ever buzzing in the room,
Tease me like gnats. Ah, letters! throw them down
At once, as I must have them, to be sure,
Whether I bid you never bring me such
At such an hour, or bid you. No excuse.
You choose to bring them, as I choose perhaps
To throw them in the fire. Now, get to bed,
And dream, if possible, I am not cross.

Why what a pettish, petty thing I grow,–
A mere, mere woman,–a mere flaccid nerve,-
A kerchief left out all night in the rain,
Turned soft so,–overtasked and overstrained
And overlived in this close London life!
And yet I should be stronger.
Never burn
Your letters, poor Aurora! for they stare
With red seals from the table, saying each,
'Here's something that you know not.' Out alas,
'Tis scarcely that the world's more good and wise

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
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You Dont Have To Act Tha

Written by: myles goodwyn
You act like someone else and I dont know why
You try to pretend youre hurt but you wont cry
And I dont believe the things that you told me
I know that you only do it cos youre lonely
And all your friends have lost their way
And you dont know who you can turn to
Its been such a long, long way girl
And I know what youve been through
So you dont have to act that way, tonite
You dont have to act that way tonite
People misunderstand you when its not right
Im gonna hold your hand and make you feel nice
Im gonna show you all that love can be
Ill always be around when you need me
Look into my eyes and smile for me
Ill hold you in my arms youll see
All it takes is one on one and that can be
Enough for some
So you dont have to act that way tonite
You dont have to act that way tonite
So you dont have to act that way tonite
You dont have to act that way tonite
Its alright
Its alright
You dont have to say youre sorry
Id never turn your words around
Be yourself now dont be lonely
You know Id never let you down
Tell me what youve been goin thru
Im trying to understand and get to know you
You can believe the things that Im sayin
Put all your trust in me and what youre feelin
All your friends have lost their way
And you dont know who you can turn to
Its seems such a long long way
And I know what you been through
So you dont have to act that way tonite
You dont have to act that way tonite
You dont have to act that way tonite
Its alright
Its alright
Its alright

song performed by April Wine
Added by Lucian Velea
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The 47% Mitt Romney Calls Welfare Slobs

61% of these 47% percent of Americans that Mitt Romney calls irresponsible and welfare trash work and pay payroll taxes. Many of these 47% are vets, elderly on social security, crippled and hurting people. He doesn't mention soldiers at war during his acceptance speech NOW THIS....24%% of the people voting for the Romney ticket are in this 47% Romney called welfare slobs; they were voting for him but not no more! ! ! ! ! ! I'm sorry the zombies still will. Romney is an outsourcing business man who hid his money in tax shelters around the world. His 47% perspective is just more of his elitist antics. This 47%number has, elderly people on social security, vets and many hurting people. This shows his perspective on social security and medicare way back to the New Deal and President Roosevelt; it shows that he detests entitlement programs for the middle class and poor. He calls them irresponsible and seeing themselves as victims. So condescending, so out of touch....President Obama wants the private sector to lower this statistic of 47% getting government aid by creating jobs. He doesn't want everyone on the government dole but until jobs are created he wants everyone to get a fair shake at the American Dream not just the rich. The republicans and tea party resist any creation of jobs so they don't give him any credit or help. They paint him as a big government socialist because he uses the government to help the people, all of the people. Romney is a 1% representative and disdains a huge portion of the American people. These fat cats outsourced the jobs and now so many industrial jobs are in China with cheap labor and no environmental standards by people like Mitt Romney and Bain Capital. They hide their money in tax shelters then use that same money for lobbyists and use the right wing Supreme Courts ruling on Citizens United calling a corporation a person with first amendment rights so they can pour money into elections without disclosure. Mitt Romney represents this movement of the power of money not freedom. They even define rape or tried to as they bring their sexist elitist perspective into play....we must resist these new rich elites and power hungry shills

poem by Joseph Narusiewicz
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Jobs?

Jobs?
They don't want jobs.
Not the ones they exclaim,
Can make a down payment...
On credited fantasies.
And they want to be able to pay for them.
They want money.
And lots of it.
They are above pushing a broom.
They've been spoiled by 'entitlements'.

That's why those who created those jobs,
Found a cheaper way to produce their products...
Now being made overseas.
With more sweating they get,
From grateful and pleasant employees.
Not discussing their retirement plans,
Or increments of expected raises.

Those employers wanting to survive,
Have prioritized their needs as well.
With a paying of those interested in creating quality...
And not those more involved,
In discussing where they vacation...
During a two hour lunch break.
While complaining what the boss makes...
Or who shops where for a price making eyes pop.
As they within eight hours do exactly what they please.
To leave a job before it is time...
Completing nothing that is due.

Jobs?
They had jobs.
And complained 'aliens' were taking them away.
When blacks began getting tips waiting on tables,
It was soon discovered how they were no longer qualified,
To do menial work.
Since 'some' folks began to realize,
Those menial positions could become very lucrative.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Saw It Myself (Short Verse Drama)

Dramatis Personae: Adrian, his wife Ester, his sisters Rebecca and Johanna, his mother Elizabeth, the high priest Chiapas, the disciple Simon Peter, the disciple John, Mary Magdalene, worshipers, priests, two angels and Jesus Christ.

Act I

Scene I.- Adrian’s house in Jerusalem. Adrian has just returned home after a business journey in Galilee, in time to attend the Passover feast. He sits at the table with his wife Ester and his sisters, Rebecca and Johanna. It’s just before sunset on the Friday afternoon.

Adrian. (Somewhat puzzled) Strange things are happening,
some say demons dwell upon the earth,
others angelic beings, miracles take place
and all of this when they had put a man to death,
had crucified a criminal. Everybody knows
the cross is used for degenerates only!

Rebecca. (With a pleasant voice) Such harsh words used,
for a good, a great man brother?
They say that without charge
he healed the sick, brought back sight,
cured leprosy, even made some more food,
from a few fishes and loafs of bread…

Adrian. (Somewhat harsh) They say many things!
That he rode into Jerusalem
to be crowned as the new king,
was a rebel against the state,
even claimed to be
the very Son of God,
now that is blasphemy
if there is no truth to it!

Johanna. I met him once.
He’s not the man
that you make him, brother.
There was a strange tranquilly to Him.
Some would say a divine presence,
while He spoke of love that is selfless,
visited the sick, the poor
and even the destitute, even harlots.

Adrian. (Looks up) There you have it!
Harlots! Tax collecting thieves!
A man is know by his friends,
or so they say and probably
there is some truth to it.

Ester. Husband, do not be so quick to judge.
I have seen Him myself, have seen
Roman soldiers marching Him to the hill
to take His life, with a angry crowd
following and mocking Him.

[...] Read more

poem by Gert Strydom
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The Third Monarchy, being the Grecian, beginning under Alexander the Great in the 112. Olympiad.

Great Alexander was wise Philips son,
He to Amyntas, Kings of Macedon;
The cruel proud Olympias was his Mother,
She to Epirus warlike King was daughter.
This Prince (his father by Pausanias slain)
The twenty first of's age began to reign.
Great were the Gifts of nature which he had,
His education much to those did adde:
By art and nature both he was made fit,
To 'complish that which long before was writ.
The very day of his Nativity
To ground was burnt Dianaes Temple high:
An Omen to their near approaching woe,
Whose glory to the earth this king did throw.
His Rule to Greece he scorn'd should be confin'd,
The Universe scarce bound his proud vast mind.
This is the He-Goat which from Grecia came,
That ran in Choler on the Persian Ram,
That brake his horns, that threw him on the ground
To save him from his might no man was found:
Philip on this great Conquest had an eye,
But death did terminate those thoughts so high.
The Greeks had chose him Captain General,
Which honour to his Son did now befall.
(For as Worlds Monarch now we speak not on,
But as the King of little Macedon)
Restless both day and night his heart then was,
His high resolves which way to bring to pass;
Yet for a while in Greece is forc'd to stay,
Which makes each moment seem more then a day.
Thebes and stiff Athens both 'gainst him rebel,
Their mutinies by valour doth he quell.
This done against both right and natures Laws,
His kinsmen put to death, who gave no cause;
That no rebellion in in his absence be,
Nor making Title unto Sovereignty.
And all whom he suspects or fears will climbe,
Now taste of death least they deserv'd in time,
Nor wonder is t if he in blood begin,
For Cruelty was his parental sin,
Thus eased now of troubles and of fears,
Next spring his course to Asia he steers;
Leavs Sage Antipater, at home to sway,
And through the Hellispont his Ships made way.
Coming to Land, his dart on shore he throws,
Then with alacrity he after goes;
And with a bount'ous heart and courage brave,
His little wealth among his Souldiers gave.
And being ask'd what for himself was left,
Reply'd, enough, sith only hope he kept.

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poem by Anne Bradstreet
Added by Poetry Lover
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V. Count Guido Franceschini

Thanks, Sir, but, should it please the reverend Court,
I feel I can stand somehow, half sit down
Without help, make shift to even speak, you see,
Fortified by the sip of … why, 't is wine,
Velletri,—and not vinegar and gall,
So changed and good the times grow! Thanks, kind Sir!
Oh, but one sip's enough! I want my head
To save my neck, there's work awaits me still.
How cautious and considerate … aie, aie, aie,
Nor your fault, sweet Sir! Come, you take to heart
An ordinary matter. Law is law.
Noblemen were exempt, the vulgar thought,
From racking; but, since law thinks otherwise,
I have been put to the rack: all's over now,
And neither wrist—what men style, out of joint:
If any harm be, 't is the shoulder-blade,
The left one, that seems wrong i' the socket,—Sirs,
Much could not happen, I was quick to faint,
Being past my prime of life, and out of health.
In short, I thank you,—yes, and mean the word.
Needs must the Court be slow to understand
How this quite novel form of taking pain,
This getting tortured merely in the flesh,
Amounts to almost an agreeable change
In my case, me fastidious, plied too much
With opposite treatment, used (forgive the joke)
To the rasp-tooth toying with this brain of mine,
And, in and out my heart, the play o' the probe.
Four years have I been operated on
I' the soul, do you see—its tense or tremulous part—
My self-respect, my care for a good name,
Pride in an old one, love of kindred—just
A mother, brothers, sisters, and the like,
That looked up to my face when days were dim,
And fancied they found light there—no one spot,
Foppishly sensitive, but has paid its pang.
That, and not this you now oblige me with,
That was the Vigil-torment, if you please!
The poor old noble House that drew the rags
O' the Franceschini's once superb array
Close round her, hoped to slink unchallenged by,—
Pluck off these! Turn the drapery inside out
And teach the tittering town how scarlet wears!
Show men the lucklessness, the improvidence
Of the easy-natured Count before this Count,
The father I have some slight feeling for,
Who let the world slide, nor foresaw that friends
Then proud to cap and kiss their patron's shoe,
Would, when the purse he left held spider-webs,
Properly push his child to wall one day!

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poem by Robert Browning from The Ring and the Book
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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