“Once again love drives me on, that loosener of limbs, bittersweet creature against which nothing can be done.”

Would Jove appoint some flower to reign, in matchless beauty on the plain, the Rose (mankind will all agree). The Rose the queen of flowers should be.

If you are squeamish Don’t prod the beach rubble.

I do not know what to do, my mind’s in two.

I will let my body flow like water over the gentle cushions.

Death is an ill; ’tis thus the Gods decide: / For had death been a boon, the Gods had died.

I know not what to do, my mind is divided.

Stand and face me, my love,and scatter the grace in your eyes.

The moon has set In a bank of jet That fringes the Western sky, The pleiads seven Have sunk from heaven And the midnight hurries by; My hopes are flown And, alas! alone On my weary couch I lie.

Eros harrows my heart: wild gales sweeping desolate mountains, uprooting oaks.

Raise high the roof-beam, carpenters. Like Ares comes the bridegroom, taller far than a tall man.

Death must be an evil and the gods agree; for why else would they live for ever?

Love – bittersweet, irrepressible – loosens my limbs and I tremble.

Death is an evil; the gods have so judged; had it been good, they would die.

With his venom irresistible and bittersweet that loosener of limbs, Love reptile-like strikes me down

He who is fair to look upon is good, and he who is good will soon be fair also.

Some say an army of horsemen, or infantry, A fleet of ships is the fairest thing On the face of the black earth, but I say It’s what one loves.

Love has both its gall and honey in abundance: it has sweetness to the taste, but it presents bitterness also to satiety.

And you don’t want them to look at you in a negative light.

Time is the best preserver of righteous men.

It’s a good way of getting you into the zone for the scene.

I just find it hard to believe that anyone would stop me to share how much they loved something that I was a part of.

There is no place in nature for extinction.

Your piping-hot lie is the best of lies.

In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something bitter, which stings in the very flowers.