I Did Not Die, And Yet I

In Judgement Be Ye Not Too Confident, Even As A Man Who Will Appraise His Corn When Standing In A Field, Ere It Is Ripe.

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

Fame Is Not Won On Downy Plumes Nor Under Canopies; The Man Who Consumes His Days Without Obtaining It Leaves Such Mark Of Himself On Earth As Smoke In Air Or Foam On Water.

Love Kindled By Virtue Always Kindles Another, Provided That Its Flame Appear Outwardly.

Love, That Exempts No One Beloved From Loving, Seized Me With Pleasure Of This Man So Strongly, That, As Thou Seest, It Doth Not Yet Desert Me.