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.

Mere air, these words, but delicious to hear.

The Moon and Pleiades have set, / Midnight is nigh, / The time is passing, passing, yet / Alone I lie.

When I look on you a moment, then I can speak no more, but my tongue falls silent, and at once a delicate flame courses beneath my skin, and with my eyes I see nothing, and my ears hum, and a wet sweat bathes me and a trembling seizes me all over.

Whatever one loves most is beautiful.

Death is an ill; 'tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.