What a woman says to her lover should be written on air or swift water.

I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness

Most wretched men are cradled to poetry by wrong: they learn in suffering what they teach in song

I hate and love. And why, perhaps you’ll ask.
I don’t know: but I feel, and I’m tormented.

It is difficult to lay aside a confirmed passion.

Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred, then a thousand more.