No man may be so cursed by priest or pope but what the Eternal Love may still return while any thread of green lives on in hope.
O human race, born to fly upward, wherefore at a little wind dost thou so fall?
I was so full of sleep at the time that I left the true way.
Reason flies When following the senses, on clipped wings.
O conscience, upright and stainless, how bitter a sting to thee is a little fault!
I made my own house be my gallows.