‘Its little rill is an upleaping jet
Of cold Cocytus, which for ever licks
Earth’s base, and when with Acheron ’tis met,
Its waters with that other cannot mix,
Which holds the elemental air dissolved;
But with it in its ceaseless course revolved
Issues unmingl’d in the lake of Styx.
27
‘The souls of murderers, in guise of fish,
Scream as they swim therein and wail for cold,