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.

For she doth make my veins and pulses tremble.

There is a place in Hell called the Malebolge.

As one who sees in dreams and wakes to find the emotional impression of his vision still powerful while its parts fade from his mind - Just such am I, having lost nearly all the vision itself, while in my heart I feel the sweetness of it yet distill and fall.

The man who lies asleep will never waken fame.

There is no greater pain than to remember, in our present grief, past happiness.