My death preserves a life valuable to the world, and more dear to me than my own. Yes, Father; I am poisoned; But know, that the poison once circulated in your veins.
With what delight did Ambrosio listen to the declaration of her artless gratitude! The natural grace of her manners, the unequalled sweetness of her voice, her modest vivacity, her unstudied elegance,...
Tell me that you will conceal my story, that I shall remain your Friend and your Companion, or this poignard drinks my blood!
Man was born for society. However little He may be attached to the World, He never can wholly forget it, or bear to be wholly forgotten by it.
Even at this moment I lament his loss, though ’tis to him that I owe all the miseries of my existence.
By sad experience I know what sorrows She must endure, who marries into a family unwilling to receive her.
Away with friendship! 'tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return.
You are the destroyer of my Soul; You are my Murderer, and on you fall the curse of my death and my unborn Infant’s! Insolent in your yet-unshaken virtue, you disdained the prayers of a Penitent; But
Vice is ever most dangerous when lurking behind the Mask of Virtue.
They had felt the sharpest darts in misfortune's quiver; Those which remained appeared blunt in comparison.
That destruction o’er you hovers; Lustful Man and crafty Devil Will combine to work your evil; And from earth by sorrows driven, Soon your Soul must speed to heaven.
I concealed those features from your sight, which you loved unconsciously. I
He had long observed with disapprobation and contempt the superstition which governed Madrid's inhabitants. His good sense had pointed out to him the artifices of the monks, and the gross absurdity of...
Hadst Thou but tasted once the thousandth part Of joys, which bless the loved and loving heart, Your words repentant and your sighs would prove, Lost is the time which is not past in love. The
Before He committed his crimes, He had computed every scruple of their weight; and yet he had committed them. 'Pardon?
An Author, whether good or bad, or between both, is an Animal whom everybody is privileged to attack; For though All are not able to write books, all conceive themselves able to judge them.
Ambrosio, learn to know me better. I love you for your virtues: Lose them, and with them you lose my affections. I look upon you as a Saint; Prove to me that you are no more than Man, and I quit you w...
You have charms, Segnora, which might captivate the most insensible; No heart unoccupied could resist them. Happy is it for me that mine is no longer in my possession; or I should have to reproach mys...
When I said I should die in your service with pleasure, I intended to live in it many long years; since, to tell you the truth, from a child I had always a particular dislike to dying, and I think tha...
Weep, Daughter, weep, and moisten your bread with your tears: God knows that you have ample cause for sorrow!