Petrarch, anglicized from Italian name Francesco Petrarca

Petrarch, anglicized from Italian name Francesco Petrarca
1304
1374

Italian Scholar, Poet and one of the earliest Renaissance Humanists

Author Quotes

How difficult it is to save the bark of reputation from the rocks of ignorance.

Often have I wondered with much curiosity as to our coming into this world and what will follow our departure.

What name to call thee by, O virgin fair, I know not, for thy looks are not of earth And more than mortal seems thy countenances.

A lot of books is a laborious burden and a distraction for the soul. At the same time attorney abundance of work and lack of rest. Intelligence turns here and there: the memory is burdened with one thing and another ... Believe me, this does not mean nourish your spirit with the writings, but suffocate under the weight of things, and bury him: or perhaps torture the soul giddy from too much like Tantalus in the midst of the waves, which cannot taste anything and craves more.

How do you know, poor fool? Perhaps out there, somewhere, someone is sighing for your absence'; and with this thought, my soul begins to breathe.

Oh! could I throw aside these earthly bands that tie me down where wretched mortals sigh-- to join blest spirits in celestial lands!

Where are the numerous constructions erected by Agrippa, of which only the Pantheon remains? Where are the splendorous palaces of the emperors?

All pleasure in the world is a passing dream.

I am possessed by an inexhaustible passion that so far I could not nor wanted to curb. I cannot get my fill of books. And yes I do own a number higher than necessary... The books give us a delight that goes deep, they talk with us, advise us and bind us with a kind of familiarity active and penetrating; and the single book not only insinuates itself in our minds, but it makes us penetrate even the names of others, and so one does come the desire of the other.

Peace cannot find and do not have to go to war.

Who naught suspects is easily deceived.

An equal doom clipp'd Time's blest wings of peace.

I certainly will not reject the praise you bestow upon me for having stimulated in many instances, not only in Italy but perhaps beyond its confines also, the pursuit of studies such as ours, which have suffered neglect for so many centuries; I am, indeed, almost the oldest of those among us who are engaged in the cultivation of these subjects. But I cannot accept the conclusion you draw from this, namely, that I should give place to younger minds, and, interrupting the plan of work on which I am engaged, give others an opportunity to write something, if they will, and not seem longer to desire to reserve everything for my own pen. How radically do our opinions differ, although, at bottom, our object is the same! I seem to you to have written everything, or at least a great deal, while to myself I appear to have produced almost nothing.

Shame is the fruit of my vanities, and remorse, and the clearest knowledge of how the world's delight is a brief dream.

With sorrow remembering happy times.

And men go about to wonder at the heights of the mountains, and the mighty waves of the sea, and the wide sweep of rivers, and the circuit of the ocean, and the revolution of the stars, but themselves they consider not.

I had got this far, and was thinking of what to say next, and as my habit is, I was pricking the paper idly with my pen. And I thought how, between one dip of the pen and the next, time goes on, and I hurry, drive myself, and speed toward death. We are always dying. I while I write, you while you read, and others while they listen or stop their ears, they are all dying.

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.

Yet have I oft been beaten in the field, And sometimes hurt, said I, but scorn'd to yield. He smiled and said: Alas! thou dost not see, My son, how great a flame's prepared for thee.

And tears are heard within the harp I touch.

I have friends whose society is delightful to me; they are persons of all countries and of all ages; distinguished in war, in council, and in letters; easy to live with, always at my command.

So sweet all people sounds the word freedom that even audacity and impudence everywhere catch on because they have some similarities with freedom.

Yon nightingale, whose strain so sweetly flows, mourning her ravish'd young or much-loved mate, a soothing charm o'er all the valleys throws and skies, with notes well tuned to her and state.

And who can rightly die needs no delay.

I know and love the good, yet ah! the worst pursue.

Author Picture
First Name
Petrarch, anglicized from Italian name Francesco Petrarca
Birth Date
1304
Death Date
1374
Bio

Italian Scholar, Poet and one of the earliest Renaissance Humanists