Harsh necessity, and the newness of my kingdom, force me to do such things and to guard my frontiers everywhere.
I will be gone from here and sing my songs/ In the forest wilderness where the wild beasts are,/ And carve in letters on the little trees/ The story of my love, and as the trees/ Will grow letters too will grow, to cry/ In a louder voice the story of my love.
A shifty, fickle object is woman, always. (Varium et mutabile semper femina.)
Perhaps even these things, one day, will be pleasing to remember.
Fear is the proof of a degenerate mind.
The flocks fear the wolf, the crops the storm, and the trees the wind.