Sir, that much prudence calls for too much worry; I cannot foresee misfortunes so far away.

By dying I wanted to maintain my honor, and hide a flame so black from the daylight!

My only hope lies in my despair.

Vice, like virtue, Grows in small steps, and no true innocence Can ever fall at once to deepest guilt.

Sir, that much prudence calls for too much worry; I cannot foresee misfortunes so far away.

My death, taking the light from my eyes, gives back to the day the purity which they soiled.

A benefit cited by way of reproach is equivalent to an injury.