God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice.

What gnashing is not a comfort, what gnawing of the worm is not a tickling, what torment is not a marriage bed to this damnation, to be secluded eternally, eternally, eternally from the sight of God?

Art is the most passionate orgy within man's grasp.

One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And Death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

For I am every dead thing In whom love wrought new alchemy For his art did express A quintessence even from nothingness, From dull privations, and lean emptiness He ruined me, and I am re-begot Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not.

I count all that part of my life lost which I spent not in communion with God, or in doing good.

The rich have no more of the kingdom of heaven than they have purchased of the poor by their alms.