The same lady is more directly celebrated in the next Ballata, where Poliziano calls her by her name, Ippolita. I have taken the liberty of substituting Myrrha for this somewhat unmanageable word. He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. From Myrrha's eyes there flieth, girt with fire, An angel of our lord, a laughing boy, Who lights in frozen hearts a flaming pyre, And with such sweetness doth the soul destroy, That while it dies, it murmurs forth its joy; Oh blessed am I to dwell in Paradise! He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. From Myrrha's eyes a virtue still doth move, So swift and with so fierce and strong a flight, That it is like the lightning of high Jove, Riving of iron and adamant the might; Nathless the wound doth carry such delight That he who suffers dwells in Paradise. He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. From Myrrha's eyes a lovely messenger Of joy so grave, so virtuous, doth flee, That all proud souls are bound to bend to her; So sweet her countenance, it turns the key Of hard hearts locked in cold security: Forth flies the prisoned soul to Paradise. He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. In Myrrha's eyes beauty doth make her throne, And sweetly smile and sweetly speak her mind: Such grace in her fair eyes a man hath known As in the whole wide world he scarce may find: Yet if she slay him with a glance too kind, He lives again beneath her gazing eyes. He who knows not what thing is Paradise, Let him look fixedly on Myrrha's eyes. The fourth Ballata sets forth the fifteenth-century Italian code of love, the code of the Novelle, very different in its avowed laxity from the high ideal of the trecentisti poets. I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. From those who feel the fire I feel, what use Is there in asking pardon? These are so Gentle, kind-hearted, tender, piteous, That they will have compassion, well I know. From such as never felt that honeyed woe, I seek no pardon: nought they know of Love. I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof. Honour, pure love, and perfect gentleness, Weighed in the scales of equity refined, Are but one thing: beauty is nought or less, Placed in a dame of proud and scornful mind. Who can rebuke me then if I am kind So far as honesty comports and Love? I ask no pardon if I follow Love; Since every gentle heart is thrall thereof.