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.
Not being untutored in suffering, I learn to pity those in affliction
Perhaps even these things, one day, will be pleasing to remember.
The Britons are quite separated from all the world.
The medicine increases the disease.
Don't trust the horse, Trojans. Whatever it is, I fear the Greeks even bearing gifts. -Equo ne credite, Teucri. Quidquid id est, timeo Danaos et dona ferentes