Love and the gentle heart are but the same thing.

Love, that all gentle hearts so quickly know.

Oh blind! Oh ignorant, self-seeking cupidity which spurs us so in the short mortal life and steeps us so through all eternity!

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.

Through me you go into a city of weeping; through me you go into eternal pain; through me you go amongst the lost people

Many have justice in their hearts, but slowly it is let fly, for it comes not without council to the bow.

Fate's arrow, when expected, travels slow.