Sleep ... peace of the soul, who puttest care to flight.
O fool, what else is sleep but chill death's likeness?
I grabbed a pile of dust, and holding it up, foolishly asked for as many birthdays as the grains of dust, I forgot to ask that they be years of youth.
There is no small pleasure in pure water.
Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?
The spirited horse, which will try to win the race of its own accord, will run even faster if encouraged.