Our native soil draws all of us, by I know not what sweetness, and never allows us to forget.

Thy destiny is only that of man, but thy aspirations may be those of a god.

Thanks are justly due for boons unbought

What is now reason was formerly impulse or instinct.

An injury may prove a blessing.

Ah me! love can not be cured by herbs.

I am the poet of the poor, because I was poor when I loved; since I could not give gifts, I gave words.