Encounter:
I was sad when I met you,
but now I feel my suffering less.
Could you be the one I have longed for?
Could you return happiness to me?
Your sadness, like my own,
Longs for the sunset,
takes pleasure in the night.
My soul is immediately bound to you,
and I love you without knowing you.

A loving breath from our beloved
will grant sweet solace to the heart...
to the heart which, fed by hope of love,
has no need for better nourishment.

See how the sun's clear rays dance and play on the billows while far below them, a hidden
tempest is raging.Although I smile,
my heart weeps in grief and woe.

Mary, the Lord is with you. You are blessed among all the women, and blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and in the hour of our death. Amen.

Love is a babble, no man is able to say 'tis this or tis that. So full of passions of sundry fashions, 'tis like I cannot tell what. Love's fair in cradle, foul in fable, 'tis either too cold or too hot; an arrant liar, fed by desire, It is and yet it is not. Love is a fellow clad oft in yellow, the cankerworm of the mind, a privy mischief, and such a sly thief no man knows which way to find. Love is a wonder that's here and yonder, as common to one as to moe; a monstrous cheater, ev'ry man's debtor; hand him and so let him go.

At midnight, the fairies hover over the blue lake. I want to see my love's beauty, but the gray mists blur her image. They say that the fairies come to give comfort to the sad victims of love. Come, ghosts, to me. I die of love.

Beloved, please don't weep
because your tears will cause me to perish.
My faithful soul that encircles you
will return, liberated in sighs.

To enjoy a devoted love brings contentment to the heart. If there is no faithful heart, there is no beauty, no wisdom, and no fascination.

Withouten you no rose can grow; no leaf be green if never seen your sweetest face. No bird have grace or power to sing; or anything be kind, or fair, and you nowhere.

When the silvery moon gleams through the shrubbery and scatters it's slumbering light over the grass, and the nightingale warbles, I wander sadly from bush to bush.

Shrouded by foliage, a pair of doves coo their enchantment in front of me; but I turn away--I seek darker shadows, and the solitary tear falls.

When, o smiling image, which like the sunrise beams through my soul, shall I find you on earth? And the solitary tear trembles more hotly down my cheek.

A woman of fifteen should know everything that goes on: where the devil has his tail, what is good and bad. She must know the little tricks that enchant her lovers: feign laughter or tears, invent good excuses. She must, in one moment, pay attention to a hundred men, and with her eyes speak to a thousand. She must give hope to all whether they be handsome or ugly, know how to hide her feelings without becoming flustered or bushing, know how to lie, and, like a queen from her high throne, be obeyed. It seems that they like this doctrine; long live Despina who serves them well.