Now men go forth with jests and drolleries To preach, and if but well the people laugh, The hood puffs out, and nothing more is asked. But in the cowl there nestles such a bird, That, if the common people were to see it, They would perceive what pardons they confide in, For which so great on earth has grown the folly, That, without proof of any testimony, To each indulgence they would flock together. By this Saint Anthony his pig doth fatten, And many others, who are worse than pigs, Paying in money without mark of coinage. But since we have digressed abundantly, Turn back thine eyes forthwith to the right path, So that the way be shortened with the time. This nature doth so multiply itself In numbers, that there never yet was speech Nor mortal fancy that can go so far. And if thou notest that which is revealed By Daniel, thou wilt see that in his thousands Number determinate is kept concealed. The primal light, that all irradiates it, By modes as many is received therein, As are the splendours wherewith it is mated. Hence, inasmuch as on the act conceptive The affection followeth, of love the sweetness Therein diversely fervid is or tepid. The height behold now and the amplitude Of the eternal power, since it hath made Itself so many mirrors, where ’tis broken, One in itself remaining as before.” Paradiso: Canto XXX Perchance six thousand miles remote from us Is glowing the sixth hour, and now this world Inclines its shadow almost to a level, When the mid-heaven begins to make itself So deep to us, that here and there a star Ceases to shine so far down as this depth, And as advances bright exceedingly The handmaid of the sun, the heaven is closed Light after light to the most beautiful; Not otherwise the Triumph, which for ever Plays round about the point that vanquished me, Seeming enclosed by what itself encloses, Little by little from my vision faded; Whereat to turn mine eyes on Beatrice My seeing nothing and my love constrained me. If what has hitherto been said of her Were all concluded in a single praise, Scant would it be to serve the present turn. Not only does the beauty I beheld Transcend ourselves, but truly I believe Its Maker only may enjoy it all. Vanquished do I confess me by this passage More than by problem of his theme was ever O’ercome the comic or the tragic poet; For as the sun the sight that trembles most, Even so the memory of that sweet smile My mind depriveth of its very self. From the first day that I beheld her face In this life, to the moment of this look, The sequence of my song has ne’er been severed; But now perforce this sequence must desist From following her beauty with my verse, As every artist at his uttermost.