The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.

All the while, believe me, I prayed our night would last twice as long.

Whatever one loves most is beautiful.

He who is fair to look upon is good, and he who is good will soon be fair also.

I would not think to touch the sky with two arms

Once again love drives me on, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done.

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.