In youth alone, unhappy mortals live; But, ah! the mighty bliss is fugitive: Discolour'd sickness, anxious labour, come, And age, and death's inexorable doom.

Each man is led by his own liking.

Perhaps the day may come when we shall remember these sufferings with joy.

Impotent fury rages powerless and to no purpose.

Better times perhaps await us who are now wretched

There should be no strife with the vanquished or the dead.

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.