Under the pretext of study we spent our hours in the happiness of love, and learning held out to us the secret opportunities that our passion craved. Our speech was more of love than of the books which lay open before us; our kisses far outnumbered our reasoned words.
— letter, Peter Abelard
Then there is no more left but this, that in our doom the sorrow yet to come shall be no less than the love we two have already known.
You know, beloved, as the whole world knows, how much I have lost in you, how at one wretched stroke of fortune that supreme act of flagrant treachery robbed me of my very self in robbing me of you; and how my sorrow for my loss is nothing compared with what I feel for the manner in which I lost you.
— letter to Peter Abelard, from Heloise D’argenteuil