Nothing Is Miserable But What Is Thought

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

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.

One's Virtue Is All That One Truly Has, Because It Is Not Imperiled By The Vicissitudes Of Fortune.

Nothing Is Miserable Unless You Think It So; And On The Other Hand, Nothing Brings Happiness Unless You Are Content With It.

For In All Adversity Of Fortune The Worst Sort Of Misery Is To Have Been Happy.