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Then amongst flowers and springs, Making delightful sport, Sat lovers without conflict, without flame

Torquato Tasso

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Torquato Tasso
Age: 51 †
Born: 1544
Born: March 11
Died: 1595
Died: May 25
Author
Playwright
Poet
Writer
Torcuato Tasso
Torquato Tasso
Conflict
Springs
Spring
Flame
Flower
Delightful
Sports
Sat
Peace
Flames
Making
Sport
Without
Flowers
Lovers
Amongst

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It is the fortunate who should extol fortune.
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Love is when he gives you a piece of your soul, that you never knew was missing.
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None merits the name of Creator but God and the poet.
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A friend giveth sympathy in trouble.
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Not for no cold did freeze, Nor any cloud beguile Th'eternal flowering spring
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A fool is he that comes to preach or prate, When men with swords their right and wrong debate. [It., Chi conta i colpi e la dovuta offesa, Mentr' arde la tenzon, misura e pesa?]
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O subtle love! a thousand wiles thou hast, by humble suit, by service, or by hire, to win a maiden's hold,--a thing soon done, for nature framed all women to be won.
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True love cannot be found where it does not exist, nor can it be denied where it does.
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Love is when you don't have to be with another person to touch their heart!
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Women have tongues of craft, and hearts of guile, They will, they will not fools that on them trust For in their speech is death, hell in their smile. [It., Femmina e cosa garrula e fallace: Vuole e disvuole, e folle uom chi sen fida, Si tra se volge.]
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For when last need to desperation driveth, Who dareth most he wiseth counsel giveth. [It., Che spesso avvien che ne' maggior perigli Son piu audaci gli ottimi consigli.]
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He, full of bashfulness and truth, loved much, hoped little, and desired naught.
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They make their fortune who are stout and wise, Wit rules the heavens, discretion guides the skies. [Lat., Che sovente addivien che'l saggio e'l forte. Fabro a se stesso e di beata sorte.]
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Perhaps if only once you did enjoy The thousandth part of all the happiness A heart beloved enjoys, returning love, Repentant, you would surely sighing say, “All time is truly lost and gone Which is not spent in serving love.”
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Virtue's guard is labor ease, her sleep.
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O happy, golden age! Not for that rivers ran With streams of milk, and honey dropped from trees
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Lost is the time that you don't spend for love.
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