Tartarus is the abyss of fathomless gloom, that beshrews all minds of dignity and defiles the flesh with its vile corruption, sowing its baneful seed into the holiest purposes of men. It wreaths the wicked forsaken in eternal fire and crowns their condemned heads in a flame that burns with lightless ardor, yet withers away each layer of the body with such a hellish heat, wherefrom so great a hazy perdition and bitter odor of festering vice and scorched-off evil arises that all the sturdiest furnaces of man and an assembly of all its sepulchered dead, unearthed anew from the green bosom of its everlasting mansion and final place of rest, wrought with worms and base creatures of slime and filth, engendering the foulest fluids from its rotting flesh of which not even the most blessed and heavenly body could be bathed pure, and which not all hoar Neptune's flood nor Jove's imperial vapors nor the sweet juices of every earthly blossom might perfume to fair scent, are but a feeble projection of it, and appear but brief embers or the wispy fume of a smothered candle amidst the ruin of smoldering London and a speck of dust amidst an endless country of sand.
Clearly, it is worse.