Love presses my head with carefully placed feet, wretch that he is, until he has taught me to detest chaste girls, and to live with no counsel.

That death is best which comes appropriately at a ripe age.

No rival will steal away my sure love; that glory will be my gray hair.

Always in absent lovers love's tide flows stronger.

Among absent lovers, ardor always fares better.

There is something beyond the grave; death does not end all, and the pale ghost escapes from the vanquished pyre.

Let's give the historians something to write about