She looked just like a painting dying to speak. - Aeschylus

[. . .] radiant dreams are passing in the night,
the memories throb with sorrow, joy with pain . . .
it is pain to dream and see desires
slip through the arms,
a vision lost for ever
winging down the moving drifts of sleep.

Whoever is just willingly and without compulsion will not lack happiness; he will never be utterly destroyed.

Plini de-ngâmfare, stârniți de mârșavă neobrăzare,
Asemenea câinilor fără rușine,
Nu vor s-audă vocile zeilor.