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Wynne, Ellis, 1671-1734

"The Visions of the Sleeping Bard"

Thence they were
snatched away up the ravines amidst the eternal ice and snow; {73a} then
plunged again into an enormous flood of seething brimstone to be parched,
stifled, and choked by the direful stench; thence to a quagmire of
vermin, to embrace hellish reptiles far more noxious than serpents or
vipers. After that the devils took knotted rods of fiery steel from the
furnace, wherewith they beat them so that their howls resounded
throughout all Hell, so inexpressibly excruciating was the pain, and then
they seized hot irons to sear the bloody wounds. No swoon or trance is
there to beguile with a moment's respite, but an unchanging strength to
suffer and to feel; though one would have thought that after one awful
wail there never could be the strength to raise another as weirdly-loud;
yet never will their key be lowered, with the devils ever answering:
"This is your welcome for aye." And worse, were it possible, than the
pain, was the scorn and bitterness of the devils' mockery and derision,
but worst of all, their own conscience was now thoroughly awakened, and
devoured them more relentlessly than a thousand infernal lions.


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