Lit in their own flares, thirst devours the light of day, and, eternal lover of the cold night, chasing their blackened backs. Eager for their gifted shadows, in vain the scorched track runs: that he himself is putting the good he craves where their eyes never penetrate. The absent happiness, and the desire with it, its impossible instance burns and redoubles, carrying in his bowels his enemy ... So I run with barbarous constancy, And I always find my anxiety with me and the long-awaited good at the greatest distance!