Nothing Is Miserable But What

A Man Content To Go To Heaven Alone Will Never Go To Heaven.

Music Is Part Of Us, And Either Ennobles Or Degrades Our Behavior.

He Who Has Calmly Reconciled His Life To Fate, And Set Proud Death Beneath His Feet, Can Look Fortune In The Face, Unbending Both To Good And Bad; His Countenance Unconquered.

I Who Once Wrote Songs With Keen Delight Am Now By Sorrow Driven To Take Up Melancholy Measures. Wounded Muses Tell Me What I Must Write, And Elegiac Verses Bathe My Face With Real Tears. Not Even Terror Could Drive From Me These Faithful Companions Of My Long Journey. Poetry, Which Was Once The Glory Of My Happy And Flourishing Youth, Is Still My Comfort In This Misery Of My Old Age.

Who Would Give A Law To Lovers? Love Is Unto Itself A Higher Law.