Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.
The Moon and Pleiades have set, / Midnight is nigh, / The time is passing, passing, yet / Alone I lie.
In gold sandals / dawn like a thief / fell upon me.
I do not know what to do, my mind's in two.
Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.
I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.