I have two luxuries to brood over in my walks:
Your loveliness,
And the Hour of my Death.
O that I could have possession of them both in the same minute.
I hate the world:
It batters too much the wings of my self-will,
And would I could take a
Sweet poison from your
Lips
To send me out of it.

My love is a constant sensation which nothing suspends,
Which nothing interrupts,
Which is alternately absolute devotion which has its sweetness,
And an agony so fearful, that if you were to prolong it twice in one day,
You would
Kill me.

I could no sooner leave you than
Continue to
Live