With a few flowers in my garden, half a dozen pictures and some books, I live without envy.
Harmony is pure love, for love is a concerto.
Profits on the exchange are the treasures of goblins.
The fire of love and the cold of time, deprive my sweet love of his peace of mind.
All right, then, I'll say it: Dante makes me sick.
But life is short: while one lives, everything is lacking; when one is dead, everything is superfluous.