Those ancients who in poetry presented the golden age, who sang its happy state, perhaps, in their Parnassus, dreamt this place. Here, mankind's root was innocent; and here were every fruit and never-ending spring; these streams--the nectar of which poets sing.
If thou follow thy star, thou canst not fail of glorious heaven.
He loves but little who can say and count in words, how much he loves.
No one thinks of how much blood it costs.
He who shall never be divided from me kissed my mouth all trembling.
All your renown is like the summer flower that blooms and dies; because the sunny glow which brings it forth, soon slays with parching power.