Jigging veins of rhyming mother wits.

Why this is hell, nor am I out of it: Thinkst thou that I who saw the face of God, And tasted the eternal joys of heaven, Am not tormented with ten thousand hells In being deprived of everlasting bliss! . . . When all the world dissolves, And every creature shall be purified, All places shall be hell that are not heaven.

You stars that reigned at my nativity, whose influence hath allotted death and hell.

Love me little, love me long.

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscribed In one self place, for where we are is hell, And where hell is there must we ever be.

All places shall be hell that are not heaven.

Fornication: but that was in another country; And besides, the wench is dead.