o'er-tortured

Updated: May 18, 2025

'Now, Faustus, let thine eyes with horror stare Into that vast perpetual torture-house; There are the furies tossing damned souls On burning forks; their bodies boil 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.

Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu - The House by the Church-Yard