...whose Souls, Albeit In A Cloudy Memory,

Balance Out The Good Things And The Bad That Have Happened In Your Life And You Will Have To Acknowledge That You Are Still Way Ahead. You Are Unhappy Because You Have Lost Those Things In Which You Took Pleasure? But You Can Also Take Comfort In The Likelihood That What Is Now Making You Miserable Will Also Pass Away.

I Who Once Wrote Songs With Keen Delight Am Now By Sorrow Driven To Take Up Melancholy Measures. Wounded Muses Tell Me What I Must Write, And Elegiac Verses Bathe My Face With Real Tears. Not Even Terror Could Drive From Me These Faithful Companions Of My Long Journey. Poetry, Which Was Once The Glory Of My Happy And Flourishing Youth, Is Still My Comfort In This Misery Of My Old Age.

Wretched Men Cringe Before Tyrants Who Have No Power, The Victims Of Their Trivial Hopes And Fears. They Do Not Realise That Anger Is Hopeless, Fear Is Pointless And Desire All A Delusion. He Whose Heart Is Fickle Is Not His Own Master, Has Thrown Away His Shield, Deserted His Post, And He Forges The Links Of The Chain That Holds Him.

In Every Kind Of Adversity, The Bitterest Part Of A Man's Affliction Is To Remember That He Once Was Happy.

All Fortune Is Good Fortune; For It Either Rewards, Disciplines, Amends, Or Punishes, And So Is Either Useful Or Just.