Contemplate The Extent And Stability Of The

For In Every Ill-turn Of Fortune The Most Unhappy Sort Of Unfortunate Man Is The One Who Has Been Happy

I Scarcely Know The Meaning Of Your Question; Much Less Can I Answer It.

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.

Love Binds People Too, In Matrimony's Sacred Bonds Where Chaste Lovers Are Met, And Friends Cement Their Trust And Friendship. How Happy Is Mankind, If The Love That Orders The Stars Above Rules, Too, In Your Hearts.

In Other Living Creatures The Ignorance Of Themselves Is Nature, But In Men It Is A Vice.