Che non pur per cittadi e per castella, Ma per tuguri ancora e per fenili Spesso si trovan gli uomini gentili. - Ludovico Ariosto

What sweeter bliss and what more blessed state
Can be imagined than a loving heart,
But for the torment which Man suffers, that
Suspicion, sinister and deep, that smart,
That aching wretchedness, that malady,
That frenzied rage, which we call jealousy?

Né spegner può, per starne l'acqua, il fuoco,
Né può stato mutar, per mutar loco.

A virgin is like a rose: while she remains on the thorn whence she sprang, alone and safe in a lovely garden, no flock, no shepherd approaches. The gentle breeze and the dewy dawn, water, and earth pay her homage; amorous youths and loving maidens like to deck their brows with her, and their breasts. / But no sooner is she plucked from her mother-stalk, severed from her green stem, than she loses all, all the favour, grace, and beauty wherewith heaven and men endowed her.