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

Stars veil their beauty soon / Beside the glorious moon, / When her full silver light / Doth make the whole earth bright.

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.

I took my lyre and said: come now, my heavenly tortoise shell: become a speaking instrument.

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

There is no place for grief in a house which serves the Muse.