“Of four infernal rivers that disgorge/ Into the burning Lake their baleful streams;/Abhorred Styx the flood of deadly hate,/Sad Acheron of sorrow, black and deep;/Cocytus, nam'd of lamentation loud/ Heard on the rueful stream; fierce Phlegethon/ Whose waves of torrent fire inflame with rage./ Far off from these a slow and silent stream,/ Lethe the River of Oblivion rolls/ Her wat'ry Labyrinth whereof who drinks,/ Forthwith his former state and being forgets,/ Forgets both joy and grief, pleasure and pain.”

“Now the thought Both of lost happiness and lasting painTorments him; round he throws his baleful eyesThat witnessed huge affliction and dismayMixed with obdurate pride and steadfast hate:At once as far as angels ken he viewsThe dismal situation waste and wild,A dungeon horrible, on all sides roundAs one great furnace flamed, yet from those flamesNo light, but rather darkness visibleServed only to discover sights of woe,Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peaceAnd rest can never dwell, hope never comesThat comes to all; but torture without endStill urges, and a fiery deluge, fedWith ever-burning sulfur unconsumed.”

“Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep...”

“...you are a river rock and belong in a stream - not here in this upper room sinking in my bed...”

“But say I could repent and could obtaineBy Act of Grace my former state: how soonwould higth recal high thoughts; how soon unsaywhat feign'd submission swore: ease would recantvows made in pain, as violent and void. For never can true reconcilement growwhere wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep:which would but lead me to a worse relapseand heavier fall: so should I purchase cleaveshort intermission bought with double smart:This knows my punisher; therefore as farfrom granting here, as I from begging peace:All hope excluded thus, behold in steadof us out-cast, exil'd, his new delight, Mankind created, and for his this World. So farewell Hope, and with Hope farwel Fear,Farewel Remorse: all Good to me is lost.”

“The time of the autumn floods came and the hundred streams poured into the Yellow River. … Then the Lord of the River was beside himself with Joy, believing that all the beauty in the world belonged to him alone.”

“The happy placeImparts to thee no happiness, no joy --Rather inflames thy torment, representingLost bliss, to thee no more communicable;So never more in Hell than when in Heaven.”