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

Sharp and fell remorse, the offspring of my sin! Why do you, O God, lacerate my heart so late? Why, O boding cries, that scream so close to me,--why do I listen to you now, and never heard you before?

Prepare thy soul calmly to obey; such offering will be more acceptable to God than every other sacrifice.

Cowards' weapons neither cut nor pierce.

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.

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?

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!].