Whoever gets up and comes to grips with Love like a boxer is a fool.
No honest man will argue on every side
War loves to seek its victims in the young.
To know that all is well, even if late will come to know it, is at least some gain.
Yet I pity the poor wretch, though he's my enemy. He's yoked to an evil delusion, but the same fate could be mine. I see clearly: we who live are all phantoms, fleeing shadows.
Whoever lives among many evils just as I, how can dying not be a source of gain?