The poet's labors are a work of joy, and require peace of mind.
Even pleasure cloys without variety.
Wine, not too much, inspires and make the mind,to the soft joys of Venus strong inclined,which, buried in excess, unapt to love,stupidly lies and knows not hom to move
Let what is irksome become habitual, no more will it trouble you.
Like fragile ice anger passes away in time.
Let love steal in disguised as friendship.