- Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights (via wordsaretimeless)
While I had power to bless you,
Nor any round that neck his arms did fling
More privileged to caress you,
Happier was Horace than the Persian king.
LYDIA. While you for none were pining
Sorer, nor Lydia after Chloe came,
Lydia, her peers outshining,
Might match her own with Ilia’s Roman fame.
H. Now Chloe is my treasure,
Whose voice, whose touch, can make sweet music flow:
For her I’d die with pleasure,
Would Fate but spare the dear survivor so.
L. I love my own fond lover,
Young Calais, son of Thurian Ornytus:
For him I’d die twice over,
Would Fate but spare the sweet survivor thus.
H. What now, if Love returning
Should pair us ‘neath his brazen yoke once more,
And, bright-hair’d Chloe spurning,
Horace to off-cast Lydia ope his door?
L. Though he is fairer, milder,
Than starlight, you lighter than bark of tree,
Than stormy Hadria wilder,
With yon to live, to die, were bliss for me.
- Horace, Ode to Lydia
- Francesco Petrarch, Canzoniere (22)
- Francesco Petrarch
I am awake, I think, I burn, I weep; and she who destroys me is always before me, to my sweet pain: war is my state, full of sorrow and suffering, and only thinking of her do I have any peace.
Thus from one clear living fountain alone spring the sweet and the bitter from which I feed; one hand alone heals me and pierces me.
And that my suffering may not reach an end, a thousand times a day I die and a thousand am born, so distant am I from health."
- Petrarch, Rima 164.