I hold that a man should strive to the uttermost for his life's set prize.
Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.
The lie was dead And damned, and truth stood up instead.
Must in death your daylight finish? My sun sets to rise again.
When I love most, love is disguised. In hate; and when hate is surprised, in love, then I hate most.
Ah, but a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's a heaven for?