We see not our own backs.

I hate and I love. And if you ask me how, I do not know: I only feel it, and I am torn in two.

I write of youth, of love, and have access by these to sing of cleanly wantonness.

To whom do I give my new elegant little book? Cui dono lepidum novum libellum?

Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill bred it is!

So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.

There is nothing more silly than a silly laugh.