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Β«Honk, honk!Β» β€” Harpo Marx ᡐᡃⁱ˒ ᡘᡐ α΅’α΅‡Λ’αΆœα΅˜Κ³α΅’ ⁿᡒ˒ᡗʳⁱⁿʰᡒ ᡇᡃⁱˣᡃ Κ³α΅‰βΏα΅ˆα΅ƒ ᡉ α΅ˆα΅‰Λ’α΅ˆα΅‰βΏα΅—α΅ƒα΅ˆα΅’ ☠︎︎ α΅α΅‰α΅ƒΚ³αΆœΛ’α΅—α΅ƒα΅–α΅ƒ ☠︎︎ I'm not on Bluesky / NΓ£o tenho conta no Bluesky ᡇᡉʷᡃʳᡉ α΅’αΆ  Λ’αΆœα΅ƒα΅α΅α΅‰Κ³Λ’ / αΆœα΅˜β±α΅ˆα΅ƒα΅ˆα΅’ αΆœα΅’α΅ ᡍᡒˑᡖⁱ˒ᡗᡃ˒
William Butler Yeats, No second Troy Why should I blame her that she filled my days With misery, or that she would of late Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways, Or hurled the little streets upon the great, Had they but courage equal to desire? What could have made her peaceful with a mind That nobleness made simple as a fire, With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind That is not natural in an age like this, Being high and solitary and most stern? Why, what could she have done being what she is? Was there another Troy for her to burn?
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