Dianzi, ne l’alba che procede al giorno,
quando l’anima tua dentro dormia

There is no greater sorrow
Than to recall a happy time
When miserable.

Oh blind, oh ignorant, self-seeking cupidity whcih spurs as so in the short mortal life and steeps as through all eternity.

There, pride, avarice, and envy are the tongues men know and heed, a Babel of depsair

The man who lies asleep will never waken fame, and his desire and all his life drift past him like a dream, and the traces of his memory fade from time like smoke in air, or ripples on a stream.

The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and pain.