Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.

For the night Shows stars and women in a better light.

What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.

Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.

Armenian is the language to speak with God.

Self praise is no praise at all.