[Jöns is commiserating with disconsolate blacksmith Plog]
Jöns: Love is the blackest of all plagues, but you don't even die of it, and usually it passes.
. . .
Jöns: If everything is imperfect in this world, love is perfect in its imperfection.
Plog: You're lucky. You believe in your own twaddle.
Jöns: Who says I believe it? But I like giving advice.
Jöns: Love is the blackest of all plagues, but you don't even die of it, and usually it passes.
. . .
Jöns: If everything is imperfect in this world, love is perfect in its imperfection.
Plog: You're lucky. You believe in your own twaddle.
Jöns: Who says I believe it? But I like giving advice.
[ Jöns is commiserating with disconsolate blacksmith Plog ]
Jöns : Love is the blackest of all plagues, but you don't even die of it, and usually it passes.
. . .
Jöns : If everything is imperfect in this world, love is perfect in its imperfection.
Plog : You're lucky. You believe in your own twaddle.
Jöns : Who says I believe it? But I like giving advice.
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