A língua portuguesa é, definitivamente, fêmea.
Não dá pra entender, mas ao mesmo tempo, não dá pra não amar.
Desgraçado de todo aquele que ama o que não pode entender, e luta todos os dias para ser aceite* pela criatura amada.
Hoje, aprendi a conjugar o verbo por. Agora, eu pu-lo no lugar correcto*.
In faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,
For they in thee a thousand errors note;
But ‘tis my heart that loves what they despise,
Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote.
Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;
Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,
Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
To any sensual feast with thee alone:
But my five wits nor my five senses can
Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,
Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:
Only my plague thus far I count my gain,
That she that makes me sin awards me pain.” Biu de Stratford, 141.