A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.
Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing, 'Tis that I may not weep.