| | mandriva25 COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:22 |
| | dure alex | |
| With.Or.Without.You COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:23 |
| | Ouiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
avec Romain Duris (enfin il y en a eu plusieurs)... Mais celui avec Romain Duris il est vraiment excellent  :!!!!
Je l'ai mis sur ma fiche hé  !!!! | |
| D.O.N.L.I COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:25 |
| |  | |
| With.Or.Without.You COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:26 |
| | "Monsieur..."
"Madame!"
"Monsieur..."
"Madame!"
"Monsieur! Que fais un homme d'église dans ma maison?"...
Vraiment énooorme !!! Chui trop dégoûtée qu'il ait eu une mauvaise critique !!!  | |
| With.Or.Without.You COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:29 |
| | *ECOUTE PLACEBO*  | |
| TAMPAX.HYGIENIK COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:29 |
| | Meme pas elle ma rep , ok  | |
| With.Or.Without.You COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:31 |
| | Euh, pardon Inko...
Répondu à quoi? J'ai pas vu...   | |
| D.O.N.L.I COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:36 |
| | To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die: to sleep;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to, 'tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish'd. To die, to sleep;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there's the rub;
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: there's the respect
That makes calamity of so long life;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor's wrong, the proud man's contumely,
The pangs of despised love, the law's delay,
The insolence of office and the spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? who would fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscover'd country from whose bourn
No traveller returns, puzzles the will
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry,
And lose the name of action. - Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember'd. | |
| With.Or.Without.You COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:37 |
| | Je déteste l'anglais de Shakespeare!!! Trop complexe!!! Déjà que le français de Molière l'est aussi.... | |
| D.O.N.L.I COMPTE SUPPRIMÉ Ven 30/01/2009 22:38 |
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