If our inward griefs were seen written on our brow, how many would be pitied who are now envied! [It., Se a ciascun l'interno affanno Si leggesse in fronte scritto, Quanti mai, che invidia fanno, Ci farebbero pieta!].

If every man's internal care Were written on his brow, How many would our pity share Who raise our envy now?

We are like vessels tossed on the bosom of the deep; our passions are the winds that sweep us impetuously forward; each pleasure is a rock; the whole life is a wide ocean. Reason is the pilot to guide us, but often allows itself to be led astray by the storms of pride.

How full of error is the judgment of mankind! They wonder at results when they are ignorant of the reasons

The canker which the trunk conceals is revealed by the leaves, the fruit, or the flower.

If the internal griefs of every man could be read, written on his forehead, how many who now excite envy would appear to be the objects of pity?

It is by no means a fact that death is the worst of all evils; when it comes it is an alleviation to mortals who are worn out with sufferings.