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If our inward griefs were written on our brows, how many who are envied now would be pitied. It would seem that they had their deadliest foe in their own breast, and their whole happiness would be reduced to mere seeming.

Pietro Metastasio

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Pietro Metastasio
Catholic Priest
Librettist
Playwright
Poet
Presbyter
Songwriter
Writer
The Eternal City
Metastasio
Pietro Antonio Domenico Trapassi
Pietro Antonio Trapassi Gallastri
Pietro Antonio Domenico Buonaventura Metastasio
Pedro Metastase
Pietro Metastase
Antonio Domenico Bonaventura Trapassi
Pietro Trapassi
Pedro Metastasio
Pedro Matastasio
Mere
Brows
Seem
Foe
Written
Seeming
Happiness
Reduced
Seems
Breast
Deadliest
Whole
Inward
Pitied
Many
Breasts
Griefs
Would
Grief
Envied

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An old warrior is never in haste to strike the blow.
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High birth is an accident, not a virtue.
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Love is a feeling that comes into our hearts of our own choice for neither force nor harshness can limit the heart's freedom.
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The bee and the serpent often sip from the selfsame flower.
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Prepare thy soul calmly to obey such offering will be more acceptable to God than every other sacrifice.
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Cowards' weapons neither cut nor pierce.
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If you wish to behold God, you may see Him in every object around search in your breast, and you will find Him there. And if you do not yet perceive where He dwells, confute me, if you can, and say where He is not.
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The aged oak upon the steep stands more firm and secure if assailed by angry winds for if the winter bares its head, the more strongly it strikes its roots into the ground, acquiring strength as it loses beauty.
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The pilot who is always dreading a rock or a tempest must not complain if he remain a poor fisherman. We must at times trust, something to fortune, for fortune has often some share in what happens.
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It is the just decree of Heaven that a traitor never sees his danger till his ruin is at hand.
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Though the Indian ocean abounds in rich and rare gems, it does not boast a clearer sky nor more unruffled sea. If there be a shore that dreads not the fury of the faithless billows, it is some poor and narrow inlet unknown to the winds.
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Sharp and fell remorse, the offspring of my sin! Why do you, O God, lacerate my heart so late? Why, O boding cries, that scream so close to me,--why do I listen to you now, and never heard you before?
Pietro Metastasio
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If our inward griefs were seen written on our brow, how many would be pitied who are now envied! [It., Se a ciascun l'interno affanno Si leggesse in fronte scritto, Quanti mai, che invidia fanno, Ci farebbero pieta!].
Pietro Metastasio
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Of all faults the greatest is the excess of impious terror, dishonoring divine grace. He who despairs wants love, wants faith for faith, hope, and love are three torches which blend their light together, nor does the one shine without the other.
Pietro Metastasio