Burning inwardly with strong anger.

In my bitterness I speak to my soul; created out of matter, ashes of the earth.

I am like a leaf with which the winds play.

Whereas it is proper for a proper wise man to carve his life on solid rock, I, in my folly, am more like a flowing river, never staying on the same course, not really knowing where he goes.

I drift alone like a ship with no sailor, just as a wandering bird carried along paths of air;

I seek men like myself, and I am joined with rogues.

For me a serious heart is too serious a matter; nonsesne feels pleasant and sweeter than honeycombs; whatever Venus may command is a pleasant duty; she never dwells in a faint heart.

I follow the broad road after the manner of youth and entangle myself in vice, forgetful of virtue; greedy for pleasure more, much more than for salvation.

He, who is dead in his soul, can only attend to the needs of the flesh.