I scarcely know the meaning of your question; much less can I answer it.
Every man must be content with that glory which he may have at home.
And no renown can render you well-known: For if you think that fame can lengthen life By mortal famousness immortalized, The day will come that takes your fame as well, And there a second death for you awaits.
A person is an individual substance of a rational nature.
He who has calmly reconciled his life to fate ... can look fortune in the face.
The science of numbers ought to be preferred as an acquisition before all others, because of its necessity and because of the great secrets and other mysteries which there are in the properties of numbers. All sciences partake of it, and it has need of none.
If there is anything good about nobility it is that it enforces the necessity of avoiding degeneracy.
In omni adversitate fortunæ, infelicissimum genus est infortunii fuisse felicem In every adversity of fortune, to have been happy is the most unhappy kind of misfortune.
Love binds people too, in matrimony's sacred bonds where chaste lovers are met, and friends cement their trust and friendship. How happy is mankind, if the love that orders the stars above rules, too, in your hearts.
Music is part of us, and either ennobles or degrades our behavior.
Good men seek it by the natural means of the virtues; evil men, however, try to achieve the same goal by a variety of concupiscences, and that is surely an unnatural way of seeking the good. Don't you agree?
For in every ill-turn of fortune the most unhappy sort of unfortunate man is the one who has been happy
Love has three kinds of origin, namely: suffering, friendship and love. A human love has a corporal and intellectual origin.
For in all adversity of fortune the worst sort of misery is to have been happy.
The good is the end toward which all things tend.
...Whose souls, albeit in a cloudy memory, yet seek back their good, but, like drunk men, know not the road home.
Whose happiness is so firmly established that he has no quarrel from any side with his estate of life?
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.
Nothing is miserable but what is thought so, and contrariwise, every estate is happy if he that bears it be content.
The completely simultaneous and perfect possession of unlimited life at a single moment.
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