Honor, without money, is a mere malady.
Wrinkles on the brow are the imprints of exploits.
Hell, covering all with its gloomy vapors, has cast shadows on even the holiest eyes.
Crime like virtue has its degrees; and timid innocence was never known to blossom suddenly into extreme license.
The glory of my name increases my shame. Less known by mortals, I could better escape their eyes.
Ah, why can't I know if I love, or if I hate?