That tuneful nymph, the babbling Echo.
Wherever I look there is nothing but the image of death.
Every woman thinks herself attractive; even the plainest is satisfied with the charms she deems that she possesses.
The heavier crop is ever in others' fields.
She only is chaste, who is chaste where there is no danger of detection: she who does not, because she may not, does.
Had I not sinned what would there be for you to pardon. My fate has given you the opportunity for mercy.