Often A Retrospect Delights The Mind.

There Is In Hell A Place Stone-built Throughout, Called Malebolge, Of An Iron Hue, Like To The Wall That Circles It About.

A Mighty Flame Followeth A Tiny Spark.

Love Hath So Long Possessed Me For His Own And Made His Lordship So Familiar.

O Faithful Conscience, Delicately Pure, How Doth A Little Failing Wound Thee Sore!

The More A Thing Is Perfect, The More It Feels Pleasure And Likewise Pain.