I'm as cruel as life. As cruel as love.
Summer is a Latvian chicken. We make foolish choices. We think we’re young again. We run with outstretched arms toward an object of love and it pecks us and pecks us until we’re standing there snot-nosed and teary in the middle of Astor Place and the sun sets fire to our Penguin shirts and all that is left to do is go to our air-conditioned homes and ponder the cruelty of our finest season.
Love is not ful of pittie (as men say) But deaffe and cruell, where he meanes to pray.
Love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel. It is inexorable as the tides, and life and death alike follow in its wake.
Let me set my mournful ditty To a merry measure; Thou wilt never come for pity, Thou wilt come for pleasure; Pity then will cut away Those cruel wings, and thou wilt stay.
Come away, come away, death, And in sad cypres let me be laid; Fly away, fly away, breath; I am slain by a fair cruel maid.
Let the warriors clamor after gods of blood and thunder; love is hard, harder than steel and thrice as cruel.
Why, flowers are violent, cruel, terrible and splendid... like love!
Farewell, fair cruelty.
He regarded love as a sort of cruel malady through which the elect are required to pass in their late youth and from which they emerge, pale and wrung, but ready for the business of living.
