How could Acte know?
Would Lygia make a confession to her after one day's acquaintance?
What love is that which prefers wandering, the disgrace of poverty, the uncertainty of to-morrow, or a shameful death even, to a wreath-bedecked house, in which a lover is waiting with a feast?
It is better for him not to hear such things, for he is ready to go mad.

He would not have given that girl for all Caesar's treasures, and she fled.

What kind of love is that which dreads delight and gives pain?
Who can understand it?
Who can fathom it?
Were it not for the hope that he should find her, he would sink a sword in himself.

Love surrenders; it does not take away.

There were moments at the house of Aulus when he himself believed in near happiness, but now he knows that she hated him, that she hates him, and will die with hatred in her heart.
But Acte, usually mild and timid, burst forth in her turn with indignation.