Although only breath, words which I command are immortal.
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.
Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.
What cannot be said will be wept.
Raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man.
Beauty endures only for as long as it can be seen; goodness, beautiful today, will remain so tomorrow.