There is a place, List, daughter! in a black and hollow vault, Where day is never seen; there shines no sun, But flaming horror of consuming fires; A lightless sulphur, choked with smoky fogs Of an infected darkness; in this place Dwell many thousand thousand sundry sorts Of never-dying deaths.

Delay in vengeance gives a heavier blow.

Busy opinion is an idle fool.

Brother, even by my mother's dust, I charge you, Do not betray me to your mirth or hate.

'To make that long, last donkey-ride between the pikeman and the stake, to hear the shouting and the chant of hypocrites, to be a spectacle for animals in huma…

By dying young, I shall escape great sufferings. I had not qualities or talents to make my way very well in the world: I should have been continually at fault.

Not one has shown an iota of fear of death. They want to end this agony.