Benjamin Itner

“ALFRED
Pooh!
Pray would you have had her dress always in black,
And shut herself up in a convent, dear Jack?
Besides, 'twas my fault the engagement was broken.
JOHN.
Most likely. How was it?
ALFRED.
The tale is soon spoken.
She bored me. I show'd it. She saw it. What next?
She reproach'd. I retorted. Of course she was vex'd.
I was vex'd that she was so. She sulk'd. So did I.
If I ask'd her to sing, she look'd ready to cry.
I was contrite, submissive. She soften'd. I harden'd.
At noon I was banish'd. At eve I was pardon'd.
She said I had no heart. I said she had no reason.
I swore she talk'd nonsense. She sobb'd I talk'd treason.
In short, my dear fellow, 'twas time, as you see,
Things should come to a crisis, and finish. 'Twas she
By whom to that crisis the matter was brought.
She released me. I linger'd. I linger'd, she thought,
With too sullen an aspect. This gave me, of course,
The occasion to fly in a rage, mount my horse,
And declare myself uncomprehended. And so
We parted. The rest of the story you know.”
― Owen Meredith, Lucile

“Deare Cittizens, what brainßick charmes?
What outrage of dißordered armes?
Leades you to feaßt your enuious foes,
To ßee you goar'd with your owne blowes?
Proud Babylon your force doth ßcorn
Whoße ßpoyles your trophies might adorne
And Craßßus vnreunged ghoßt,
Roames wayling through the Parthian coaßt.
Doth now your hearts ßuch warre desire
As yeelds no triumphs for your hyre?
O what a world by Lands and Seas,
Mought you haue won with much more eaße.
Then halfe the bloud your weapons draines,
In ciuill ßtrife from out your vaines!”
― Thomas May, Pharsalia, Volumes 1-2

“Who frightened you? Who hurt you?

Far too young to be protecting someone, yet that's the obvious answer: What's inside that little stupid twitch and dodge? Who taught you to do that? Why would you protect the person who hurt you? So they could do it again? Does that overwhelming selfdestroyed - what? Instinct? - at such a brand new age make any real fucking sense? Were you born this fucked up? How does all that fear soak down into those brittle bones that fucking quick?

They take care of you, don't they? They protect you. And you already know that there's nothing else outside? Nothing better? What else can you do? Is that it? There's so many more good hours than bad, aren't there? Warm times, I guess, when you play and when you show off to the audience that chose you.

You do what they say. And they haven't told you what's bad yet. Right? It doesn't hurt; really, does it? And all the time passes away so quickly. Into baby time. Into what you do whenever you want time.

No one really did hurt you, did they? Why would they want to? You're too pretty. too perfect, too valuable. Aren't you?”
― Peter Sotos, Tick

“Is it not strange, that, as ye sung,
Seemed in mine ear a death-peal rung,
Such as in nunneries they toll
For some departing sister’s soul;
Say, what may this portend?”
Then first the Palmer silence broke,
(The livelong day he had not spoke)
“The death of a dear friend.”
― Sir Walter Scott