But far more numerous was the herd of such,
Who think too little and who talk too much.

Beauty, like ice, our footing does betray; Who can tread sure on the smooth, slippery way: Pleased with the surface, we glide swiftly on, And see the dangers that we cannot shun.

And love's the noblest frailty of the mind.

When rattling bones together fly, / From the four corners of the sky.

And all to leave, what with this toil he won, / To that unfeathered, two-legged thing, a son.

Let Fortune empty her whole quiver on me, I have a soul that, like an ample shield, Can take in all, and verge enough for more; Fate was not mine, nor am I Fate's: Souls know no conquerors.