Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.
What cannot be said will be wept.
Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.
Someone, I tell you, in another time will remember us
Once again love drives me on, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done.
No honey for me, if it comes with a bee.