We may be masters of our every lot By bearing it.
Even virtue is fairer in a fair body.
In his deepest heart there surge tremendous shame and madness mixed with sorrow and love whipped on by frenzy and a courage aware of its own worth.
May the countryside and the gliding valley streams content me. Lost to fame, let me love river and woodland.
Confidence cannot find a place wherein to rest in safety.
Evil is nourished and grows by concealment.