My death, taking the light from my eyes, gives back to the day the purity which they soiled.
There may be guilt when there is too much virtue.
I have loved him too much not to hate
Too much virtue can be criminal.
You who love wild passions, flee the holy austerity of my pleasures. All here breathes of God, peace and truth.
The heart that can no longer love passionately must with fury hate.