I have become too idle, i cried, too fond of peace, too inclined towards heaven, too inert! – Alabanda gazes into the world like a noble pilot, Alabanda is diligent and searches for booty in the waves; and your hands sleep in your lap? and you would like to make do with words, and conjure the world with magic formulas? But your words are like snowflakes, useless, and only make the air murkier, and your magic spells are for the pious, but the unbelievers do not hear you. – Yes! to be gentle at the proper time, that is beautiful, but to be gentle at an untimely moment, that is ugly, for it is cowardly! – But Harmodius! I will be like your myrtle, your myrtle in which the sword was hidden. I will not have been idle in vain, and my sleep shall become like oil when the flame ignites it. I will not look on at a decisive moment, will not go about asking for news while Alabanda takes the laurel.