When the heart is sick it cannot bear the slightest annoyance.

Eurydice, dying now a second time, uttered no complaint against her husband. What was there to complain of, but that she had been loved?

Why should I go into details, we have nothing that is not perishable except what our hearts and our intellects endows us with.

Most safely shall you tread the middle path.

For in this strange anatomy we wear, the head has greater powers than the hand; the spirit, heart, and mind are over all.

Medicine sometimes snatches away health, sometimes gives it.

What is it that love does to a woman? Without she only sleeps with it alone, she lives.