Those ancients who in poetry presented the golden age, who sang its happy state, perhaps, in their Parnassus, dreamt this place. Here, mankind's root was innocent; and here were every fruit and never-ending spring; these streams--the nectar of which poets sing.

The more a thing is perfect, the more it feels pleasure and likewise pain.

The path to paradise begins in hell.

You can stay and die or you can walk your ugly ass back through that gate. It's your call, pal.

Midway upon the journey of our life

Consider that this day ne'er dawns again.

I am made of God, through his Grace. Such that your misery touches me not, Nor does flame of that burning assail me.