And then, this evil desire being quite gone from me, all my thoughts turned again unto their excellent Beatrice. And I say most truly that from that hour I thought constantly of her with the whole humbled and ashamed heart; the which became often manifest in sighs, that had among them the name of that most gracious creature, and how she departed from us. Also it would come to pass very often, through the bitter anguish of some one thought, that I forgot both it, and myself, and where I was. By this increase of sighs, my weeping, which before had been somewhat lessened, increased in like manner; so that mine eyes seemed to long only for tears and to cherish them, and came at last to be circled about with red as though they had suffered martyrdom: neither were they able to look again upon the beauty of any face that might again bring them to shame and evil: from which things it will appear that they were fitly guerdoned for their unsteadfastness. Wherefore I, (wishing that mine abandonment of all such evil desires and vain temptations should be certified and made manifest, beyond all doubts which might have been suggested by the rhymes aforewritten) proposed to write a sonnet wherein I should express this purport. And I then wrote, “Woe’s me!” _I said, “Woe’s me!” because I was ashamed of the trifling of mine eyes. This sonnet I do not divide, since its purport is manifest enough._ Woe’s me! by dint of all these sighs that come Forth of my heart, its endless grief to prove, Mine eyes are conquered, so that even to move Their lids for greeting is grown troublesome. They wept so long that now they are grief’s home, And count their tears all laughter far above: They wept till they are circled now by Love With a red circle in sign of martyrdom. These musings, and the sighs they bring from me, Are grown at last so constant and so sore That love swoons in my spirit with faint breath; Hearing in those sad sounds continually The most sweet name that my dead lady bore, With many grievous words touching her death. About this time, it happened that a great number of persons undertook a pilgrimage, to the end that they might behold that blessed portraiture bequeathed unto us by our Lord Jesus Christ as the image of His beautiful countenance,[31] (upon which countenance my dear lady now looketh continually). And certain among these pilgrims, who seemed very thoughtful, passed by a path which is well-nigh in the midst of the city where my most gracious lady was born, and abode, and at last died. [31] The Veronica (_Vera icon_, or true image); that is, the napkin with which a woman was said to have wiped our Saviour’s face on His way to the cross, and which miraculously retained its likeness. Dante makes mention of it also in the _Commedia_ (Parad. xxxi. 103" (Paradiso, Canto 31, line 103).)), where he says:—