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Vos vestros servate, meos mihi linquite mores.
She closed her eyes; and in the sweet slumber lying her spirit tiptoed from its lodging place. It's folly to shrink in fear, if this is dying; for death looked lovely in her face.
[He who can describe how his heart is ablaze is burning on a small pyre] ~ Petrarch, Sonnet 137 (from Montaigne, On sadness)
Could Beatrice have written like Dante, or Laura have glorified love's pain? I set the style for women's speech. God help me shut them up again!