Ivanov by Chekhov

SASHA: There are a great many things a man cannot understand.

Any girl would rather love an unfortunate man than a fortunate one,
because every girl would like to do something by loving.
A man has his work to do, and so for him love is kept in the background.
To talk to his wife, to walk with her in the garden, to pass the time
pleasantly with her, that is all that love means to a man.
But for us, love means life.
I love you; that means that I dream only of how I shall cure you of your
sadness, how I shall go with you to the ends of the earth.
If you are in heaven, I am in heaven; if you are in the pit, I am in the pit.
For instance, it would be the greatest happiness for me to write all night for
you, or to watch all night that no one should wake you.
I remember that three years ago, at threshing time, you came to us all dusty
and sunburnt and tired, and asked for a drink.
When I brought you a glass of water you were already lying on the sofa and
sleeping like a dead man.
You slept there for half a day, and all that time I watched by the door that
no one should disturb you.
How happy I was!
The more a girl can do, the greater her love will be; that is, I mean, the
more she feels it.

The Cherry Orchard Anton Chekhov

MADAME RANEVSKY:
This telegram's from Paris.
I get one every day.
Yesterday and to-day.
That wild man is ill again, he's bad again...
He begs for forgiveness, and implores me to come, and I really ought to go to Paris to be
near him.
You look severe, Peter, but what can I do, my dear, what can I do; he's ill, he's alone,
unhappy, and who's to look after him, who's to keep him away from his errors, to give
him his medicine punctually?
And why should I conceal it and say nothing about it; I love him, that's plain, I love him,
I love him…
That love is a stone round my neck; I'm going with it to the bottom, but I love that stone
and can't live without it. [Squeezes TROFIMOV'S hand] Don't think badly of me, Peter,
don't say anything to me, don't say... give him his medicine when it’s time?
 Miss Julie by August Strindberg
Don’t you think I can stand the sight of blood?
You think I am weak.
Oh, I should like to see your blood flowing—to see your brain on the
chopping block, all your sex swimming in a sea of blood.
I believe I could drink out of your skull, bathe my feet in your breast and eat
your heart cooked whole.
You think I am weak; you believe that I love you because my life has
mingled with yours; you think that I would carry your offspring under my
heart, and nourish it with my blood—give birth to your child and take your
name!
Hear, you, what are you called, what is your family name?
But I'm sure you have none.
I should be "Mrs. Gate-Keeper," perhaps, or "Madame Dumpheap."
You dog with my collar on, you lackey with my father's hallmark on your
buttons.
I play rival to my cook—oh—oh—oh!
You believe that I am cowardly and want to run away.
No, now I shall stay.
The thunder may roll.
My father will return—and find his desk broken into—his money gone!
Then he will ring—that bell.
A scuffle with his servant—then sends for the police—and then I tell all—
everything!
Oh, it will be beautiful to have it all over with—if only that were the end!
And my father—he'll have a shock and die, and then that will be the end.
Then they will place his swords across the coffin—and the Count's line is
extinct.
The serf's line will continue in an orphanage, win honors in the gutter and
end in prison.