Where Have You Ever Found

Drooping Along The Ground The Vine Misses Its Widowed Elm.

This Is My Wish, This Is My Command, My Pleasure Is My Reason

Refrain From Doing Ill; For One All Powerful Reason, Lest Our Children Should Copy Our Misdeeds; We Are All Too Prone To Imitate Whatever Is Base And Depraved.

Trust Me No Tortures Which The Poets Feign Can Match The Fierce Unutterable Pain He Feels, Who Night And Day Devoid Of Rest Carries His Own Accuser In His Breast.

No Nice Extreme A True Italian Knows; But Bid Him Go To Hell, To Hell He Goes.