Love is a cunning weaver of fantasies and fables.
To me the Muses truly gave / An envied and a happy lot: / E'en when I lie within the grave, / I cannot, shall not, be forgot.
There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.
Although only breath, words which I command are immortal.
I do not know what to do, my mind's in two.
I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.