“ I love you no longer with the devotion which is paid to a Saint: I prize you no more for the virtues of your soul; I lust for the enjoyment of your person. The Woman reigns in my bosom, and I am become a prey to the wildest of passions. Away with friendship! ‘tis a cold unfeeling word. My bosom burns with love, with unutterable love, and love must be its return. Tremble then, Ambrosio, tremble to succeed in your prayers…. I feel with every heart-throb, that I must enjoy you, or die.
Matthew Lewis, “The Monk” (1796)
(Source: pocketwatches, via 18thcentury)
