Benjamin Itner

“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

“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

“And now (admiring that proſpect)
To Rome this ſpeech he did direct.
O ſeate of Gods! could this men ſo
Forſake thee, ere they ſaw a foe?
If thou canſt not, what Citty can
Deſerue to be fought for by man?
Well haue the higher powers repreſt,
The humors of the armed Eaſt,
From ioyning with the Hungars ſtout
And all that fierce outragious rout
Of Dakes, of Getes, and Sarmatans,
From bringing downe their bloudy bands
To thee (poore Rome) by Fortune ſpar'd
Whom fearefull Pompey durſt not gaurd.
So weakely mand, more bleſt art farre
With ciuill then with Forraigne warre.
Thus ſaid, forthwith he did inveſt
The Citty, then with feares poſſeſt:
For ſure they thought, that (in his ire)
All should haue beene conſum'd with fire,
And Temples ſhould to ruine runne,
As ſoone as hee the walles had wonne.
Such was the meaſure of their fright,
His will they conſtru'd by his might.
And in ſuch ſudden mazements weare,
That they their ſacred rites forbeare.
The common ſort to ſportings bent,
Their merry tunes turn'd to lament:
No ſpleen they had, their ſprights were ſpent
The Roman Fathers reuerend troope
In Phabus Pallace fitting, droope:
Not thither called at an houre,
By order of the Senates powre.
No Conſuls with their preſence grace
Their ſacred ſeates in ſupreme place.
Nor next to them the lawes to ſway
The Prator ſate in his array.
No Coches at the Senate gate,
That thither bring the Peeres of ſtate.
Caſar alone was all in all,
His priuate voyce the Court doth thrall.
The Fathers to his heſts giue way,
Rady his pleasure to obay.
Whether he Monarchy deſire,
Or would to ſacred rites aſpire:
Or liues of Senators would waſt,
Or them into exile would caſt.
But he (more modeſt and more milde)
Did blush his power ſhould be defil'd
More to command (with threatning feare)
Then well the Roman ſtate could beare.”
― Thomas May, Civil War

“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