Red lips are not so red as the stained stones kissed by the English dead.
Escape? There is one unwatched way: your eyes. O Beauty! Keep me good that secret gate.
All theological lore is becoming distasteful to me.
I, too, saw God through mud
Sweet and fitting it is to die for the fatherland.
The English say, Yours Truly, and mean it. The Italians say, I kiss your feet, and mean, I kick your head.