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I find no peace, and have no arms for war, and fear and hope, and burn and yet I freeze, and fly to heaven, lying on earth's floor, and nothing hold, and all the world I seize. My jailer opens not, nor locks the door, nor binds me to hear, nor will loose my ties; Love kills me not, nor breaks the chains I wear, nor wants me living, nor will grant me ease. I have no tongue, and shout; eyeless, I see; I long to perish, and I beg for aid; I love another, and myself I hate. Weeping I laugh, I feed on misery, by death and life so equally dismayed: for you, my lady, am I in this state. Francesco Petrarca |
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