Quotes About Love

Hark, how the cheerful birds do chaunt their lays, and carol of love's praise.

Deare knight, as deare, as euer knight was deare, That all these sorrowes suffer for my sake, High heuen behold the tedious toyle, ye for me take . . .

But nothing new to him was that same pain; Nor pain at all; for he so oft had tried . . . and lov'd so oft in vain.

Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.

For louers heauen must passe by sorrowes hell.

His louely words her seemd due recompence Of all her passed paines: one louing howre For many yeares of sorrow can dispence: A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre: Shee has forgott, how many, a woeful stowre For him she late endurd; she speakes no more Of past . . . Before her stands her knight, for whom she toyld so sore.

Besides, the sundry motions of your Spheares, So sundry waies and fashions as clerkes faine, "Some in short space, and some in longer yeares; What is the same but alteration plaine? Onely the starrie skie doth still remaine: Yet do the Starres and Signes therein still moue, And euen itself is mov'd, as wizards saine. But ALL THAT MOUETH, DOTH MUTATION LOUE: Therefore both you and them to me I subiect proue.

Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske, As time her taught in lowly Shepheards weeds, Am now enforst a far vnfitter taske, For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds, And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds; Whose prayses hauing slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broad emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faithfull loues shall moralize my song. 2 Helpe then, ô holy Virgin chiefe of nine, Thy weaker Nouice to performe thy will

Emongst the Roses grow some wicked weeds; For this was not to love, but lust inclind; For love does alwayes bring forth bounteous deeds, And in each gentle hart desire of honour breeds.

Wrath, gealosie, griefe, loue do thus expell: Wrath is a fire, and gealosie a weede, Griefe is a flood, and loue a monster fell; The fire of sparkes, the weede of little seede, The flood of drops, the Monster filth did breede: But sparks, seed, drops, and filth do thus delay; The sparks soone quench, the springing seed outweed, The drops dry vp, and filth wipe cleane away: So shall wrath, gealosie, griefe, loue dye and decay.

Faire Ladies, that to loue captiued arre, And chaste desires do nourish in your mind, Let not her fault your sweet affections marre, Ne blot the bounty of all womankind; 'Mongst thousands good one wanton Dame to find: Emongst the Roses grow some wicked weeds; For this was not to loue, but lust inclind; For loue does alwayes bring forth bounteous deeds, And in each gentle hart desire of honour breeds.

LO I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske, As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds, Am now enforst a far vnfitter taske, For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds, And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds; Whose prayses hauing slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broad emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faithfull loues shall moralize my song.

Leaves, lines, and rhymes, seek her to please alone, Whom if ye please, I care for other none.

Had he already inspired a passion in some stranger's heart?

I sometimes wonder if what I consider "romance" might be dying out— l'amour fou , crazy love, destructive passion, crippling jealousy, extreme and violent and tragic.

L'amour domestique - avec ses mélodrames adultères, ses compromis douillets, ses câlins asexués, ses prises de bec mesquines - me déplaisait précisément pare qu'il puait le possible, le faisable, ce que tout le monde faisait.

Death in Venice made me hope that there might be others like me, somewhere out there, possibly in the ritzy nearby community of Charlevoix. He'd be older, rich, devoted to me and my magical youth.

When I grew up I would always be frank, loving and generous.

People say young love or love of the moment isn't real, but I think the only love is the first. Later we hear its fleeting recapitulations throughout our lives, brief echoes of the original theme in a work that increasingly becomes all development, the mechanical elaboration of a crab canon with too many parts.

He'd lived so much of his life for sexual love, which was a filthy thing, really, all that saliva and semen and anal smears, filthy! Much better to live alone and watch TV in bed or talk to Pierre-Georges as he was in his bed and watching the same movie. Both of them spotlessly clean.

They all said the way to a man's heart was through his asshole.

All my life I've made friends and lost lovers and talked about these two activities as though they were very different, opposed; but in truth love is the direct and therefore hopeless method of calling Orpheus back, whereas friendship is the equally hopeless because irrelevant attempt to find warmth in other shades. Odd that in the story Orpheus is lonely, too.

Love is a source of anxiety until it is a source of boredom; only friendship feeds the spirit.

Life cannot defeat a writer who is in love with writing - for life itself is a writer's love until death.