He Is Not Always At Ease Who

As Fall The Light Autumnal Leaves, One Still The Other Following, Till The Bough Strews All Its Honors On The Earth Below.

No Sadness Is Greater Than In Misery To Rehearse Memories Of Joy.

There Is A Place In Hell Called The Malebolge.

Abandon Every Hope, You Who Enter.

Lost Are We, And Are Only So Far Punished, That Without Hope We Live On In Desire.