So the other night I was at the Brooklyn Inn debating the romanticism of tuberculosis (née consumption) and today, awfully, marks the date John Keats died of consumption in a sick bed in Italy. To commemorate the man (and make me feel loads better), why don't you give "The Eve of St. Agnes" a read? Forbidden love, ecclesiastic devotion, not-so-chaste virgins...not only is it a beautiful poem, but as evidenced by the excerpt below, it's incredibly sexy.
Anon his heart revives: her vespers done,
Of all its wreathed pearls her hair she frees;
Unclasps her warmed jewels one by one;
Loosens her fragrant bodice; by degrees
Her rich attire creeps rustling to her knees.
When you've boned up on Keats*, watch Bright Star. If you still think consumption is romantic after that, I'll buy you a drink.
*this pun was an accident, but I felt compelled to leave it. Sorry, guys.