I know not which I love the most, Nor which the comeliest shows, The timid, bashful violet Or the royal-hearted rose: The pansy in purple dress, The pink with cheek of red, Or the faint, fair heliotrope, who hangs, Like a bashful maid her head.

I think true love is never blind, / But rather brings an added light; / An inner vision quick to find / The beauties hid from common sight.

And never since harvests were ripened, / Or laborers born, / Have men gathered figs of the thistle, / Or grapes of the thorn!

Women are only told that they resemble angels when they are young and beautiful; consequently, it is their persons, not their virtues, that procure them homage.

Give plenty of what is given to you, And listen to pity's call. Don't think the little you give is great, And the much you get is small.

Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the living heart.

Do we call the star lost that is hidden / In the great light of morn?