Now,
Faustus, let shine eyes with horror stare
Into that vast
perpetual torture-house.
There are the Furies tossing damned souls
On burning forks; their bodies
broil in lead.
There are live
quarters broiling on the coals,
That ne'er can
die.
This
ever-burning
chair
Is for o'er-tortured
souls to rest them in.
These, that are fed with sops of flaming fire,
Were gluttons, and loved only delicates,
And laughed to
see the poor
starve at their gates.
But yet all these are nothing; thou shalt see
Ten thousand
tortures that more horrid be.
