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These forums are being phased out. The new, improved Giovanni Palestrina (c. 1525-1594) Forum is at classicalmusicforums.com.
The former post was deleted as it violated our user agreement, or it did not add to the "Classical Music & Art" conversation in a constructive manner.
The new Giovanni Palestrina (c. 1525-1594) Forum may be found at http://classicalmusicforums.com/forumdisplay.php?f=9 .
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We prefer deep reflections on Philosophy, Shakespearean Sonnets, and tender musings along the lines of:
The whole of science is nothing more than a refinement of everyday thinking. --Albert Einstein
LVIII That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand the account of hours to crave, Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! O! let me suffer, being at your beck, The imprison'd absence of your liberty; And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check, Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strong That you yourself may privilage your time To what you will; to you it doth belong Yourself to pardon of self-doing crime. I am to wait, though waiting so be hell, Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well. --William Shakespeare
It is our continuing goal to foster the world's greatest converstation regarding all higher pursuits.
In the future, please register and make all posts to http://classicalmusicforums.com,
and/or join the forums at Great Books & Philosophy Forums @ jollyrogerwest.com.
God is subtle but he is not malicious. --Albert Einstein
All The Best,
William Einstein Shakespeare :)
LX Like as the waves make towards the pebbled shore, So do our minutes hasten to their end; Each changing place with that which goes before, In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light, Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown'd, Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight, And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth And delves the parallels in beauty's brow, Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth, And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow: And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand. Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. --William Shakespeare