And I am less to this son of yours than the steward who reckons his accounts.

Where place the blame?
Upon these shoulders, Madame, stooped as you in life never saw them.

I knew not, conceited gallant that I was, that beauty and strength were passing gifts.

What nature gives she likewise takes away.

Who would have dreamed that I should need an arm to lean on?
Not I, Madame! What vanity we possess when we lack nothing!.