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

No one thinks of how much blood it costs.

Thy soul is by vile fear assailed, which oft so overcasts a man, that he recoils from noblest resolution, like a beast at some false semblance in the twilight gloom.

If a thief helps a poor man out of the spoils of his thieving, we must not call that charity.

No man may be so cursed by priest or pope but what the Eternal Love may still return while any thread of green lives on in hope.

The path to paradise begins in hell.

... Nessun maggior dolore Che ricordarsi del tempo felice Nella miseria. (There is no greater pain than to remember a happy time when one is in misery.)