CHAPTER I.

IL CONVITO

THE BANQUET

OF

DANTE ALIGHIERI

Translated By

Elizabeth Price Sayer

With An Introduction By Henry Morely

LL.D., Professor Of English Literature At

University College, London

1887

INTRODUCTION.

This translation of Dante's Convito--the first in English--is from the

hand of a lady whose enthusiasm for the genius of Dante has made it a

chief pleasure of her life to dwell on it by translating, not his

Divine Comedy only, but also the whole body of his other works. Among

those works the Vita Nuova and the Convito have a distinct place, as

leading up to the great masterpiece. In the New Life, Man starts on

his career with human love that points to the divine. In the Banquet,

he passes to mature life and to love of knowledge that declares the

power and the love of God in the material and moral world about us and

within us. In the Divine Comedy, the Poet passes to the world to come,

and rises to the final union of the love for Beatrice, the beatifier,

with the glory of the Love of God. Of this great series, the crowning

work has, of course, had many translators, and there have been

translators also of the book that shows the youth of love. But the

noble fragment of the Convito that unites these two has, I believe,

never yet been placed within reach of the English reader, except by a

translation of its poems only into unrhymed measure in Mr. Charles

Lyell's "Poems of the Vita Nuova and the Convito," published in 1835.

The Convito is a fragment. There are four books where fifteen were

designed, including three only of the intended fourteen songs. But the

plan is clear, and one or two glances forward to the matter of the

last book, which would have had Justice for its theme, show that all

was to have been brought to a high spiritual close.

Its aim was no less than the lifting of men's minds by knowledge of

the world without them and within them, bound together in creation,

showing forth the Mind of the Creator. The reader of this volume must

not flinch from the ingenious dialectics of the mediæval reasoner on

Man and Nature. Dante's knowledge is the knowledge of his time.

Science had made little advance since Aristotle--who is "the

Philosopher" taken by Dante for his human guide--first laid its

foundations. It is useful, no doubt, to be able in a book like this,

shaped by a noble mind, to study at their best the forms of reasoning

that made the science of the Middle Ages. But the reader is not called

upon to make his mind unhappy with endeavours to seize all the points,

say, of a theory of the heavens that was most ingenious, but in no

part true. The main thing is to observe how the mistaken reasoning

joins each of the seven sciences to one of the seven heavens, and here

as everywhere joins earth to heaven, and bids man lift his head and

look up, Godward, to the source of light. If spiritual truth could

only come from right and perfect knowledge, this would have been a

world of dead souls from the first till now; for future centuries, in

looking back at us, will wonder at the little faulty knowledge that we

think so much. But let the known be what it may, the true soul rises

from it to a sense of the divine mysteries of Wisdom and of Love.

Dante's knowledge may be full of ignorance, and so is ours. But he

fills it as he can with the Spirit of God. He is not content that men

should be as sheep, and look downward to earth for all the food they

need. He bids them to a Banquet of another kind, whose dishes are of

knowledge for the mind and heavenward aspiration for the soul.

Dante's Convito--of which the name was, no doubt, suggested by the

Banquets of Plato and Xenophon--was written at the close of his life,

after the Divine Comedy, and no trace has been found of more of its

songs than the three which may have been written and made known some

time before he began work on their Commentary. Death stayed his hand,

and the completion passed into a song that joined the voice of Dante

to the praise in heaven.

H.M.

_April_ 1887.

THE

BANQUET OF DANTE ALIGHIERI

* * * * *

The First Treatise.

CHAPTER I.

As the Philosopher says in the beginning of the first Philosophy, "All

men naturally desire Knowledge." The reason of which may be, that each

thing, impelled by the intuition of its own nature, tends towards its

perfection, hence, forasmuch as Knowledge is the final perfection of

our Soul, in which our ultimate happiness consists, we are all

naturally subject to the desire for it.

Verily, many are deprived of this most noble perfection, by divers

causes within the man and without him, which remove him from the use

of Knowledge.

Within the man there may be two defects or impediments, the one on the

part of the Body, the other on the part of the Soul. On the part of

the Body it is, when the parts are unfitly disposed, so that it can

receive nothing as with the deaf and dumb, and their like. On the part

of the Soul it is, when evil triumphs in it, so that it becomes the

follower of vicious pleasures, through which it is so much deceived,

that on account of them it holds everything in contempt.

Without the man, two causes may in like manner be understood, of which

one comes of necessity, the other of stagnation. The first is the

management of the family and conduct of civil affairs, which fitly

draws to itself the greater number of men, so that they cannot live in

the quietness of speculation. The other is the fault of the place

where a person is born and reared, which will ofttimes be not only

without any School whatever, but may be far distant from studious

people. The two first of these causes--the first of the hindrance from

within, and the first of the hindrance from without--are not deserving

of blame, but of excuse and pardon; the two others, although the one

more than the other, deserve blame and are to be detested.

Hence, he who reflects well, can manifestly see that they are few who

can attain to the enjoyment of Knowledge, though it is desired by all,

and almost innumerable are the fettered ones who live for ever

famished of this food.

Oh, blessed are those few who sit at that table where the Bread of

Angels is eaten, and wretched those who can feed only as the Sheep.

But because each man is naturally friendly to each man, and each

friend grieves for the fault of him whom he loves; they who are fed at

that high table are full of mercy towards those whom they see straying

in one pasture with the creatures who eat grass and acorns.

And forasmuch as Mercy is the Mother of Benevolence, those who know

how, do always liberally offer their good wealth to the true poor, and

are like a living stream, whose water cools the before-named natural

thirst. I, then, who sit not at the blessed table, but having fled

from the pasture of the common herd, lie at the feet of those who sit

there and gather up what falls from them, by the sweetness which I

find in that which I collect little by little, I know the wretched

life of those whom I have left behind me; and moved mercifully for the

unhappy ones, not forgetting myself, I have reserved something which I

have shown to their eyes long ago, and for this I have made them

greatly desirous. Wherefore, now wishing to prepare for them, I mean

to make a common Banquet of this which I have shown to them, and of

that needed bread without which food such as this could not be eaten

by them at their feast; bread fit for such meat, which I know, without

it, would be furnished forth in vain. And therefore I desire that no

one should sit at this Banquet whose members are so unfitly disposed

that he has neither teeth, nor tongue, nor palate: nor any follower of

vice; inasmuch as his stomach is full of venomous and hurtful humours,

so that it will retain no food whatever. But let those come to us,

whosoever they be, who, pressed by the management of civil and

domestic life, have felt this human hunger, and at one table with

others who have been in like bondage, let them sit. But at their feet

let us place all those who have been the slaves of sloth, and who are

not worthy to sit higher: and then let these and those eat of my dish,

with the bread which I will cause them to taste and to digest.

The meat at this repast will be prepared in fourteen different ways,

that is, in fourteen Songs, some of whose themes will be of Love and

some of Virtue: which, without the present bread, might have some

shadow of obscurity, so that to many they might be acceptable more on

account of their form than because of their spirit. But this bread is

the present Exposition. It will be the Light whereby each colour of

their design will be made visible.

And if in the present work, which is named "Convito"--the Banquet, the

glad Life Together--I desire that the subject should be discussed more

maturely than in the Vita Nuova--the New Life--I do not therefore mean

in any degree to undervalue that Fresh Life, but greatly to enhance

it; seeing how reasonable it is for that age to be fervid and

passionate, and for this to be mature and temperate. At one age it is

fit to speak and work in one way, and at another age in another way;

because certain manners are fit and praiseworthy at one age which are

improper and blameable at another, as will be demonstrated with

suitable argument in the fourth treatise of this Book. In that first

Book (Vita Nuova) at the entrance into my youth I spoke; and in this

latter I speak after my youth has already passed away. And since my

true meaning may be other than that which the aforesaid songs show

forth, I mean by an allegoric exposition to explain these after the

literal argument shall have been reasoned out: so that the one

argument with the other shall give a relish to those who are the

guests invited to this Banquet. And of them all I pray that if the

feast be not so splendid as befits the proclamation thereof, let them

impute each defect, not to my will but to my means, since my will here

is to a full and loving Liberality.

CHAPTER II.

In preparing for every well-ordered Banquet the servants are wont to

take the proper bread, and see that it is clean from all blemish;

wherefore I, who in the present writing stand in servant's place,

intend firstly to remove two spots from this exposition which at my

repast stands in the place of bread.

The one is, that it appears to be unlawful for any one to speak of

himself; the other, that it seems to be unreasonable to speak too

deeply when giving explanations. Let the knife of my judgment pare

away from the present treatise the unlawful and the unreasonable. One

does not permit any Rhetorician to speak of himself without a

necessary cause. And from this is the man removed, because he can

speak of no one without praise or blame of those of whom he speaks;

which two causes commonly induce a man to speak of himself. And in

order to remove a doubt which here arises, I say that it is worse for

any one to blame than to praise himself, although neither may have to

be done. The reason is, that anything which is essentially wrong is

worse than that which is wrong through accident. For a man openly to

bring contempt on himself is essentially wrong to his friend, because

a man owes it to take account of his fault secretly, and no one is

more friendly to himself than the man himself. In the chamber of his

thoughts, therefore, he should reprove himself and weep over his

faults, and not before the world. Again, a man is but seldom blamed

when he has not the power or the knowledge requisite to guide himself

aright: but he is always blamed when weak of will, because our good or

evil dispositions are measured by the strength of will. Wherefore he

who blames himself proves that he knows his fault, while he reveals

his want of goodness; if, therefore, he know his fault, let him no

more speak evil of himself. If a man praise himself it is to avoid

evil, as it were; inasmuch as it cannot be done except such

self-laudation become in excess dishonour; it is praise in appearance,

it is infamy in substance. For the words are spoken to prove that of

which he has not inward assurance. Hence, he who lauds himself proves

his belief that he is not esteemed to be a good man, and this befalls

him not unless he have an evil conscience, which he reveals by

self-praise, and in so revealing it he blames himself.

And, again, self-praise and self-blame are to be shunned equally, for

this reason, that it is false witnessing. Because there is no man who

can be a true and just judge of himself, so much will self-love

deceive him. Hence it happens that every man has in his own judgment

the measures of the false merchant, who sells with the one, and buys

with the other. Every man weights the scales against his own

wrong-doing, and adds weight to his good deeds; so that the number and

the quantity and the weight of the good deeds appear to him to be

greater than if they were tried in a just balance; and in like manner

the evil appears less. Wherefore speaking of himself with praise or

with blame, either he speaks falsely with regard to the thing of which

he speaks, or he speaks falsely by the fault of his judgment; and as

the one is untruth, so is the other. And therefore, since to acquiesce

is to admit, he is wrong who praises or who blames before the face of

any man; because the man thus appraised can neither acquiesce nor deny

without falling into the error of either praising or blaming himself.

Reserve the way of due correction, which cannot be taken without

reproof of error, and which corrects if understood. Reserve also the

way of due honour and glory, which cannot be taken without mention of

virtuous works, or of dignities that have been worthily acquired.

And in truth, returning to the main argument, I say, as before, that

it is permitted to a man for requisite reasons to speak of himself.

And amongst the several requisite reasons two are most evident: the

one is when a man cannot avoid great danger and infamy, unless he

discourse of himself; and then it is conceded for the reason, that to

take the less objectionable of the only two paths, is to take as it

were a good one. And this necessity moved Boethius to speak of

himself, in order that under pretext of Consolation he might excuse

the perpetual shame of his imprisonment, by showing that imprisonment

to be unjust; since no other man arose to justify him. And this reason

moved St. Augustine to speak of himself in his Confessions; that, by

the progress of his life, which was from bad to good, and from good to

better, and from better to best, he might give example and

instruction, which, from truer testimony, no one could receive.

Therefore, if either of these reasons excuse me, the bread of my

moulding is sufficiently cleared from its first impurity.

The fear of shame moves me; and I am moved by the desire to give

instruction which others truly are unable to give. I fear shame for

having followed passion so ardently, as he may conceive who reads the

afore-named Songs, and sees how greatly I was ruled by it; which shame

ceases entirely by the present speech of myself, which proves that not

passion but virtue may have been the moving cause.

I intend also to demonstrate the true meaning of those Poems, which

some could not perceive unless I relate it, because it is concealed

under the veil of Allegory; and this it not only will give pleasure to

hear, but subtle instruction, both as to the diction and as to the

intention of the other writings.

CHAPTER III.

Much fault is in that thing which is appointed to remove some grave

evil, and yet encourages it; even as in the man who might be sent to

quell a tumult, and, before he had quelled it, should begin another.

And forasmuch as my bread is made clean on one side, it behoves me to

cleanse it on the other, in order to shun this reproof: that my

writing, which one may term, as it were, a Commentary, is appointed to

remove obscurity from the before-mentioned Songs, and is, in fact,

itself at times a little hard to understand. This obscurity is here

intended, in order to avoid a greater defect, and does not occur

through ignorance. Alas! would that it might have pleased the

Dispenser of the Universe that the cause of my excuse might never have

been; that others might neither have sinned against me, nor I have

suffered punishment unjustly; the punishment, I say, of exile and

poverty! Since it was the pleasure of the citizens of the most

beautiful and the most famous daughter of Rome, Florence, to cast me

out from her most sweet bosom (wherein I was born and nourished even

to the height of my life, and in which, with her goodwill, I desire

with all my heart to repose my weary soul, and to end the time which

is given to me), I have gone through almost all the land in which this

language lives--a pilgrim, almost a mendicant--showing forth against

my will the wound of Fortune, with which the ruined man is often

unjustly reproached. Truly I have been a ship without a sail and

without a rudder, borne to divers ports and lands and shores by the

dry wind which blows from doleful poverty; and I have appeared vile in

the eyes of many, who perhaps through some report may have imaged me

in other form. In the sight of whom not only my person became vile,

but each work already completed was held to be of less value than that

might again be which remained yet to be done.

The reason wherefore this happens (not only to me but to all), it now

pleases me here briefly to touch upon. And firstly, it is because

rumour goes beyond the truth; and then, what is beyond the truth

restricts and strangles it. Good report is the first born of kindly

thought in the mind of the friend; which the mind of the foe, although

it may receive the seed, conceives not.

That mind which gives birth to it in the first place, so to make its

gift more fair, as by the charity of friendship, keeps not within

bounds of truth, but passes beyond them. When one does that to adorn a

tale, he speaks against his conscience; when it is charity that causes

him to pass the bounds, he speaks not against conscience.

The second mind which receives this, not only is content with the

exaggeration of the first mind, but its own report adds its own effect

of endeavours to embellish, and so by this action, and by the

deception which it also receives from the goodwill generated in it,

good report is made more ample than it should be; either with the

consent or the dissent of the conscience; even as it was with the

first mind. And the third receiving mind does this; and the fourth;

and thus the exaggeration of good ever grows. And so, by turning the

aforesaid motives in the contrary direction, one can perceive why

ill-fame in like manner is made to grow. Wherefore Virgil says in the

fourth of the Æneid: "Let Fame live to be fickle, and grow as she

goes." Clearly, then, he who is willing may perceive that the image

generated by Fame alone is always larger, whatever it may be, than the

thing imaged is, in its true state.

CHAPTER IV.

Having previously shown the reason why Fame magnifies the good and the

evil beyond due limit, it remains in this chapter to show forth those

reasons which make evident why the Presence restricts in the opposite

way, and having shown this I will return to the principal proposition.

I say, then, that for three causes his Presence makes a person of less

value than he is. The first is childishness, I do not say of age, but

of mind; the second is envy; and these are in the judge: the third is

human impurity; and this is in the person judged. The first, one can

briefly reason thus: the greater part of men live according to sense

and not according to reason, after the manner of children, and the

like of these judge things simply from without; and the goodness which

is ordained to a fit end they perceive not, because the eyes of

Reason, which they need in order to perceive it, are closed. Hence,

they soon see all that they can, and judge according to their sight.

And forasmuch as any opinion they form on the good fame of others,

from hearsay, with which, in the presence of the person judged, their

imperfect judgment may dissent, they amend not according to reason,

because they judge merely according to sense, they will deem that

which they have first heard to be a lie as it were, and dispraise the

person who was previously praised. Hence, in such men, and such are

almost all, Presence restricts the one fame and the other. Such men as

these are inconstant and are soon cloyed; they are often gay and often

sad from brief joys and sorrows; speedy friends and speedy foes; each

thing they do like children, without the use of reason.

The second observation from these reasons is, that due comparison is

cause for envy to the vicious; and envy is a cause of evil judgment,

because it does not permit Reason to argue for that which is envied,

and the judicial power is then like the judge who hears only one side.

Hence, when such men as these perceive a person to be famous, they are

immediately jealous, because they compare members and powers; and they

fear, on account of the excellence of such an one, to be themselves

accounted of less worth; and these passionate men, not only judge

evilly, but, by defamation, they cause others to judge evilly.

Wherefore with such men their apprehension restricts the

acknowledgment of good and evil in each person represented; and I say

this also of evil, because many who delight in evil deeds have envy

towards evil-doers.

The third observation is of human frailty, which one accepts on the

part of him who is judged, and from which familiar conversation is not

altogether free. In evidence of this, it is to be known that man is

stained in many parts; and, as says St. Augustine, "none is without

spot." Now, the man is stained with some passion, which he cannot

always resist; now, he is blemished by some fault of limb; now, he is

bruised by some blow from Fortune; now, he is soiled by the ill-fame

of his parents, or of some near relation: things which Fame does not

bear with her, but which hang to the man, so that he reveals them by

his conversation; and these spots cast some shadow upon the brightness

of goodness, so that they cause it to appear less bright and less

excellent. And this is the reason why each prophet is less honoured in

his own country; and this is why the good man ought to give his

presence to few, and his familiarity to still fewer, in order that his

name may be received and not despised. And this third observation may

be the same for the evil as for the good, if we reverse the conditions

of the argument. Wherefore it is clearly evident that by

imperfections, from which no one is free, the seen Presence restricts

right perception of the good and of the evil in every one, more than

truth desires. Hence, since, as has been said above, I myself have

been, as it were, visibly present to all the Italians, by which I

perhaps am made more vile than truth desires, not only to those to

whom my repute had already run, but also to others, whereby I am made

the lighter; it behoves me that with a more lofty style I may give to

the present work a little gravity, through which it may show greater

authority. Let this suffice to excuse the difficulty of my commentary.

CHAPTER V.

Since this bread is now cleared of accidental spots, it remains to

excuse it from a substantial one, that is for being in my native

tongue and not in Latin; which by similitude one may term, of

barley-meal and not of wheaten flour. And from this it is briefly

excused by three reasons which moved me to choose the one rather than

the other. One springs from the avoidance of inconvenient Unfitness:

the second from the readiness of well-adjusted Liberality; the third

from the natural Love for one's own Native Tongue. And these things,

with the grounds for them, to the staying of all possible reproof, I

mean in due order to reason out in this form.

That which most adorns and commends human actions, and which most

directly leads them to a good result, is the use of dispositions best

adapted to the end in view; as the end aimed at in knighthood is

courage of mind and strength of body. And thus he who is ordained to

the service of others, ought to have those dispositions which are

suited to that end; as submission, knowledge and obedience, without

which any one is unfit to serve well. Because if he is not subject to

each of these conditions, he proceeds in his service always with

fatigue and trouble, and but seldom continues in it. If he is not

obedient, he never serves except as in his wisdom he thinks fit, and

when he wills; which is rather the service of a friend than of a

servant. Hence, to escape this disorder, this commentary is fit, which

is made as a servant to the under-written Songs, in order to be

subject to these, and to each separate command of theirs. It must be

conscious of the wants of its lord, and obedient to him, which

dispositions would be all wanting to it if it were a Latin servant,

not a native, since the songs are all in the language of our people.

For, in the first place, if it had been a Latin servant he would be

not a subject but a sovereign, in nobility, in virtue, and in beauty;

in nobility, because the Latin is perpetual and incorruptible; the

language of the vulgar is unstable and corruptible. Hence we see in

the ancient writings of the Latin Comedies and Tragedies that they

cannot change, being the same Latin that we now have; this happens not

with our native tongue, which, being home-made, changes at pleasure.

Hence we see in the cities of Italy, if we will look carefully back

fifty years from the present time, many words to have become extinct,

and to have been born, and to have been altered. But if a little time

transforms them thus, a longer time changes them more. So that I say

that, if those who departed from this life a thousand years ago should

come back to their cities, they would believe those cities to be

inhabited by a strange people, who speak a tongue discordant from

their own. On this subject I will speak elsewhere more completely in a

book which I intend to write, God willing, on the "Language of the

People."

Again, the Latin was not subject, but sovereign, through virtue. Each

thing has virtue in its nature, which does that to which it is

ordained; and the better it does it so much the more virtue it has:

hence we call that man virtuous who lives a life contemplative or

active, doing that for which he is best fitted; we ascribe his virtue

to the horse that runs swiftly and much, to which end he is ordained:

we see virtue of a sword that cuts through hard things well, since it

has been made to do so. Thus speech, which is ordained to express

human thought, has virtue when it does that; and most virtue is in the

speech which does it most. Hence, forasmuch as the Latin reveals many

things conceived in the mind which the vulgar tongue cannot express,

even as those know who have the use of either language, its virtue is

far greater than that of the vulgar tongue.

Again, it was not subject, but sovereign, because of its beauty. That

thing man calls beautiful whose parts are duly proportionate, because

beauty results from their harmony; hence, man appears to be beautiful

when his limbs are duly proportioned; and we call a song beautiful

when the voices in it, according to the rule of art, are in harmony

with each other. Hence, that language is most beautiful in which the

words most fitly correspond, and this they do more in the Latin than

in the present Language of the People, since the beautiful vulgar

tongue follows use, and the Latin, Art. Hence, one concedes it to be

more beautiful, more virtuous and more noble. And so one concludes, as

first proposed; that is, that the Latin Commentary would have been the

Sovereign, not the Subject, of the Songs.

CHAPTER VI.

Having shown how the present Commentary could not have been the

subject of Songs written in our native tongue, if it had been in the

Latin, it remains to show how it could not have been capable or

obedient to those Songs; and then it will be shown how, to avoid

unsuitable disorder, it was needful to speak in the native tongue.

I say that Latin would not have been a capable servant for my Lord the

Vernacular, for this reason. The servant is required chiefly to know

two things perfectly: the one is the nature of his lord, because there

are lords of such an asinine nature that they command the opposite of

that which they desire; and there are others who, without speaking,

wish to be understood and served; and there are others who will not

let the servant move to do that which is needful, unless they have

ordered it. And because these variations are in men, I do not intend

in the present work to show, for the digression would be enlarged too

much, except as I speak in general, that such men as these are beasts,

as it were, to whom reason is of little worth. Wherefore, if the

servant know not the nature of his lord, it is evident that he cannot

serve him perfectly. The other thing is, that it is requisite for the

servant to know also the friends of his lord; for otherwise he could

not honour them, nor serve them, and thus he would not serve his lord

perfectly: forasmuch as the friends are the parts of a whole, as it

were, because their whole is one wish or its opposite. Neither would

the Latin Commentary have had such knowledge of those things as the

vulgar tongue itself has. That the Latin cannot be acquainted with the

Vulgar Tongue and with its friends, is thus proved. He who knows

anything in general knows not that thing perfectly; even as he who

knows from afar off one animal, knows not that animal perfectly,

because he knows not if it be a dog, a wolf, or a he-goat. The Latin

knows the Vulgar tongue in general, but not separately; for if it

should know it separately it would know all the Vulgar Tongues,

because it is not right that it should know one more than the other;

and thus, what man soever might possess the complete knowledge of the

Latin tongue, the use of that knowledge would show him all

distinctions of the Vulgar. But this is not so, for one used to the

Latin does not distinguish, if he be a native of Italy, the vulgar

tongue of Provence from the German, nor can the German distinguish the

vulgar Italian tongue from that of Provence: hence, it is evident that

the Latin is not cognizant of the Vulgar. Again, it is not cognizant

of its friends, because it is impossible to know the friends without

knowing the principal; hence, if the Latin does not know the Vulgar,

as it is proved above, it is impossible for it to know its friends.

Again, without conversation or familiarity, it is impossible to know

men; and the Latin has no conversation with so many in any language as

the Vulgar has, to which all are friends, and consequently cannot know

the friends of the Vulgar.

And this, that it would be possible to say, is no contradiction; that

the Latin does converse with some friends of the Vulgar: but since it

is not familiar with all, it is not perfectly acquainted with its

friends, whereas perfect knowledge is required, and not defective.

CHAPTER VII.

Having proved that the Latin Commentary could not have been a capable

servant, I will tell how it could not have been an obedient one. He is

obedient who has the good disposition which is called obedience. True

obedience must have three things, without which it cannot be: it

should be sweet, and not bitter; entirely under control, and not

impulsive; with due measure, and not excessive; which three things it

was impossible for the Latin Commentary to have; and, therefore, it

was impossible for it to be obedient. That to the Latin it would have

been impossible, as is said, is evident by such an argument as this:

each thing which proceeds by an inverse order is laborious, and

consequently is bitter, and not sweet; even as to sleep by day and to

wake by night, and to go backwards and not forwards. For the subject

to command the sovereign, is to proceed in the inverse order; because

the direct order is, for the sovereign to command the subject; and

thus it is bitter, and not sweet; and because to the bitter command it

is impossible to give sweet obedience, it is impossible, when the

subject commands, for the obedience of the sovereign to be sweet.

Hence if the Latin is the sovereign of the Vulgar Tongue, as is shown

above by many reasons, and the Songs, which are in place of

commanders, are in the Vulgar Tongue, it is impossible for the

argument to be sweet. Then is obedience entirely commanded, and in no

way spontaneous, when that which the obedient man does, he would not

have done of his own will, either in whole or in part, without

commandment. And, therefore, if it might be commanded to me to carry

two long robes upon my back, and if without commandment I should carry

one, I say that my obedience is not entirely commanded, but is in part

spontaneous; and such would have been that of the Latin Commentary,

and consequently it would not have been obedience entirely commanded.

What such might have been appears by this, that the Latin, without the

command of this Lord, the Vernacular, would have expounded many parts

of his argument (and it does expound, as he who searches well the

books written in Latin may perceive), which the Vulgar Tongue does

nowhere.

Again, obedience is within bounds, and not excessive, when it goes to

the limit of the command, and no further; as Individual Nature is

obedient to Universal Nature when she makes thirty-two teeth in the

man, and no more and no less; and when she makes five fingers on the

hand, and no more and no less; and the man is obedient to Justice when

he does that which the Law commands, and no more and no less.

Neither would the Latin have done this, but it would have sinned not

only in the defect, and not only in the excess, but in each one; and

thus its obedience would not have been within due limit, but

intemperate, and consequently it would not have been obedient. That

the Latin would not have been the executor of the commandment of his

Lord, and that neither would he have been a usurper, one can easily

prove. This Lord, namely, these Songs, to which this Commentary is

ordained for their servant, commands and desires that they shall be

explained to all those whose mind is so far intelligent that when they

hear speech they can understand, and when they speak they can be

understood. And no one doubts, that if the Songs should command by

word of mouth, this would be their commandment. But the Latin would

not have explained them, except to the learned men: and so that the

rest could not have understood. Hence, forasmuch as the number of

unlearned men who desire to understand those Songs may be far greater

than the learned, it follows that it could not have fulfilled its

commandment so well as the Native Tongue, which is understood both by

the Learned and the Unlearned. Again, the Latin would have explained

them to people of another language, as to the Germans, to the English,

and to others; and here it would have exceeded their commandment. For

against their will, speaking freely, I say, their meaning would be

explained there where they could not convey it in all their beauty.

And, therefore, let each one know, that nothing which is harmonized by

the bond of the Muse can be translated from its own language into

another, without breaking all its sweetness and harmony. And this is

the reason why Homer was not translated from Greek into Latin, like

the other writings that we have of the Greeks. And this is the reason

why the verses of the Psalms are without sweetness of music and

harmony; for they were translated from Hebrew into Greek, and from

Greek into Latin, and in the first translation all that sweetness

vanished.

And, thus is concluded that which was proposed in the beginning of the

chapter immediately before this.

CHAPTER VIII.

Since it is proved by sufficient reasons that, in order to avoid

unsuitable confusion, it would be right that the above-named Songs be

opened and explained by a Commentary in our Native Tongue and not in

the Latin, I intend to show again how a ready Liberality makes me

select this way and leave the other. It is possible, then, to perceive

a ready Liberality in three things, which go with this Native Tongue,

and which would not have gone with the Latin. The first is to give to

many; the second is to give useful things; the third is to give the

gift without being asked for it.

For to give to and to assist one person is good; but to give to and to

assist many is ready goodness, inasmuch as it has a similitude to the

good gifts of God, who is the Benefactor of the Universe. And again,

to give to many is impossible without giving to one, forasmuch as one

is included in many. But to give to one may be good without giving to

many, because he who assists many does good to one and to the other;

he who assists one does good to one only: hence, we see the imposers

of the laws, especially if they are for the common good, hold the eyes

fixed whilst compiling these laws. Again, to give useless things to

the receiver is also a good, inasmuch as he who gives, shows himself

at least to be a friend; but it is not a perfect good, and therefore

it is not ready: as if a knight should give to a doctor a shield, and

as if the doctor should give to a knight the written aphorisms of

Hippocrates, or rather the technics of Galen; because the wise men say

that "the face of the gift ought to be similar to that of the

receiver," that is, that it be suitable to him, and that it be useful;

and therein it is called ready liberality in him who thus

discriminates in giving.

But forasmuch as moral discourses usually create a desire to see their

origin, in this chapter I intend briefly to demonstrate four reasons

why of necessity the gift (in order that it be ready liberality)

should be useful to him who receives. Firstly, because virtue must be

cheerful and not sad in every action: hence, if the gift be not

cheerful in the giving and in the receiving, in it there is not

perfect nor ready virtue. And this joy can spring only from the

utility, which resides in the giver through the giving, and which

comes to the receiver through the receiving. In the giver, then, there

must be the foresight, in doing this, that on his part there shall

remain the benefit of an inherent virtue which is above all other

advantages; and that to the receiver come the benefit of the use of

the thing given. Thus the one and the other will be cheerful, and

consequently it will be a ready liberality, that is, a liberality both

prompt and well considered.

Secondly, because virtue ought always to move things forwards and

upwards. For even as it would be a blameable action to make a spade of

a beautiful sword, or to make a fair basin of a lovely lute; so it is

wrong to move anything from a place where it may be useful, and to

carry it into a place where it may be less useful. And since it is

blameable to work in vain, it is wrong not merely to put the thing in

a place where it may be less useful, but even in a place where it may

be equally useful. Hence, in order that the changing of the place of a

thing may be laudable, it must always be for the better, because it

ought to be especially praiseworthy; and this the gift cannot be, if

by transformation it become not more precious. Nor can it become more

precious, if it be not more useful to the receiver than to the giver.

Wherefore, one concludes that the gift must be useful to him who

receives it, in order that it may be in itself ready liberality.

Thirdly, because the exercise of the virtue of itself ought to be the

acquirer of friends. For our life has need of these, and the end of

virtue is to make life happy. But that the gift may make the receiver

a friend, it must be useful to him, because utility stamps on the

memory the image of the gift, which is the food of friendship, and the

firmer the impression, so much the greater is the utility; hence,

Martino was wont to say, "Never will fade from my mind the gift

Giovanni made me." Wherefore, in order that in the gift there may be

its virtue, which is Liberality, and that it may be ready, it must be

useful to him who receives it.

Finally, since the act of virtue should be free, not forced, it is

free action, when a person goes willingly to any place; which is shown

by his keeping the face turned thitherward; it is forced action, when

he goes against his will; which is shown by his not looking cheerfully

towards the place whither he goes: and thus the gift looks towards its

appointed place when it addresses itself to the need of the receiver.

And since it cannot address itself to that need except it be useful,

it follows, in order that it may be with free action, that the virtue

be free, and that the gift go freely to its object, which is the

receiver; and consequently the gift must be to the utility of the

receiver, in order that there may be a prompt and reasonable

Liberality therein.

The third respect in which one can observe a ready Liberality, is

giving unasked; because, to give what is asked, is, on one side, not

virtue, but traffic; for, the receiver buys, although the giver may

not sell; and so Seneca says "that nothing is purchased more dearly

than that whereon prayers are expended." Hence, in order that in the

gift there be ready Liberality, and that one may perceive that to be

in it, there must be freedom from each act of traffic, and the gift

must be unasked. Wherefore that which is besought costs us so dear, I

do not mean to argue now, because it will be fully discussed in the

last treatise of this book.

CHAPTER IX.

A Latin Commentary would be wanting in all the three above-mentioned

conditions, which must concur, in order that in the benefit conferred

there may be ready Liberality; and our Mother Tongue possesses all, as

it is possible to show thus manifestly. The Latin would not have

served many; for if we recall to memory that which is discoursed of

above, the learned men, without the Italian tongue, could not have had

this service. And those who know Latin, if we wish to see clearly who

they are, we shall find that, out of a thousand one only would have

been reasonably served by it, because they would not have received it,

so prompt are they to avarice, which removes them from each nobility

of soul that especially desires this food. And to the shame of them, I

say that they ought not to be called learned men: because they do not

acquire knowledge for the use of it, but forasmuch as they gain money

or dignity thereby; even as one ought not to call him a harper who

keeps a harp in his house to be lent out for a price, and not to use

it for its music.

Returning, then, to the principal proposition, I say that one can see

clearly how the Latin would have given its good gift to few, but the

Mother Tongue will serve many. For the willingness of heart which

awaits this service, is in those who, through misuse of the world,

have left Literature to men who have made of her a harlot; and these

nobles are princes, barons, knights, and many other noble people, not

only men, but women, whose language is that of the people and

unlearned. Again, the Latin would not have been giver of a useful

gift, as the Mother Tongue will be; forasmuch as nothing is useful

except inasmuch as it is used; nor is there a perfect existence with

inactive goodness. Even so of gold, and pearls, and other treasures

which are subterranean, those which are in the hand of the miser are

in a lower place than is the earth wherein the treasure was concealed.

The gift truly of this Commentary is the explanation of the Songs, for

whose service it is made. It seeks especially to lead men to wisdom

and to virtue, as will be seen by the process of this treatise. This

design those only could have in use in whom true nobility is sown,

after the manner that will be described in the fourth treatise; and

these are almost all men of the people, as those are noble which in

this chapter are named above. And there is no contradiction, though

some learned man may be amongst them; for, as says my Master Aristotle

in the first book of the Ethics, "One swallow does not make the

Spring." It is, then, evident that the Mother Tongue will give the

useful thing where Latin would not have given it. Again, the Mother

Tongue will give that gift unasked, which the Latin would not have

given, because it will give itself in form of a Commentary which never

was asked for by any person. But this one cannot say of the Latin,

which for Commentary and for Expositions to many writings has often

been in request, as one can perceive clearly in the opening of many a

book.

And thus it is evident that a ready Liberality moved me to use the

Mother Tongue rather than Latin.

CHAPTER X.

He greatly needs excuse who, at a feast so noble in its provisions,

and so honourable in its guests, sets bread of barley, not of wheaten

flour: and evident must be the reason which can make a man depart from

that which has long been the custom of others, as the use of Latin in

writing a Commentary. And, therefore, he would make the reason

evident; for the end of new things is not certain, because experience

of them has never been had before: hence, the ways used and observed

are estimated both in process and in the end.

Reason, therefore, is moved to command that man should diligently look

about him when he enters a new path, saying, "that, in deliberating

about new things, that reason must be clear which can make a man

depart from an old custom." Let no one marvel, then, if the digression

touching my apology be long; but, as is necessary, let him bear its

length with patience.

Continuing it, I say that, since it has been shown how, in order to

avoid unsuitable confusion and from readiness of liberality, I fixed

on the Commentary in the Mother Tongue and left the Latin, the order

of the entire apology requires that I now prove how I attached myself

to that through the natural love for my native tongue, which is the

third and last reason which moved me to this. I say that natural love

moves the lover principally to three things: the one is to exalt the

loved object, the second is to be jealous thereof, the third is to

defend it, as each one sees constantly to happen; and these three

things made me adopt it, that is, our Mother Tongue, which naturally

and accidentally I love and have loved.

I was moved in the first place to exalt it. And that I do exalt it may

be seen by this reason: it happens that it is possible to magnify

things in many conditions of greatness, and nothing makes so great as

the greatness of that goodness which is the mother and preserver of

all other forms of greatness. And no greater goodness can a man have

than that of virtuous action, which is his own goodness, by which the

greatness of true dignity and of true honour, of true power, of true

riches, of true friends, of true and pure renown, are acquired and

preserved: and this greatness I give to this friend, inasmuch as that

which he had of goodness in latent power and hidden, I cause him to

have in action and revealed in its own operation, which is to declare

thought.

Secondly, I was moved by jealousy of it. The jealousy of the friend

makes a man anxious to secure lasting provision; wherefore, thinking

that, from the desire to understand these Songs, some unlearned man

would have translated the Latin Commentary into the Mother Tongue; and

fearing that the Mother Tongue might have been employed by some one

who would have made it seem ugly, as he did who translated the Latin

of the "Ethics," I endeavoured to employ it, trusting in myself more

than in any other. Again, I was moved to defend it from its numerous

accusers, who depreciate it and commend others, especially the Langue

d'Oc, saying, that the latter is more beautiful and better than this,

therein deviating from the truth. For by this Commentary the great

excellence of our common Lingua di Si will appear, since through it,

most lofty and most original ideas may be as fitly, sufficiently, and

easily expressed as if it were by the Latin itself, which cannot show

its virtue in things rhymed because of accidental ornaments which are

connected therewith--that is, the rhyme and the rhythm, or the

regulated measure; as it is with the beauty of a lady when the

splendour of the jewels and of the garments excite more admiration

than she herself. He, therefore, who wishes to judge well of a lady

looks at her when she is alone and her natural beauty is with her,

free from all accidental ornament. So it will be with this Commentary,

in which will be seen the facility of the syllables, the propriety of

the conditions, and the sweet orations which are made in our Mother

Tongue, which a good observer will perceive to be full of most sweet

and most amiable beauty. But, since it is most determined in its

intention to show the error and the malice of the accuser, I will

tell, to the confusion of those who accuse the Italian language,

wherefore they are moved to do this; and this I shall do in a special

chapter, in order that their shame may be more notable.

CHAPTER XI.

To the perpetual shame and abasement of the evil men of Italy who

commend the Mother Tongue of other nations and depreciate their own, I

say that their action proceeds from five abominable causes: the first

is blindness of discretion; the second, mischievous self-justification;

the third, greed of vainglory; the fourth, an invention of envy; the

fifth and last, vileness of mind, that is, cowardice. And each one of

these grave faults has a great following, for few are those who are

free from them.

Of the first, one can reason thus. As the sensitive part of the soul

has its eyes, with which it learns the difference of things, inasmuch

as they are coloured externally; so the rational part has its eye with

which it learns the difference of things, inasmuch as each is ordained

to some end; and this is discretion. And as he who is blind with the

eyes of sense goes always according to the guidance of others judging

evil and good; so he who is blinded from the light of discretion,

always goes in his judgment according to the cry, right or wrong as it

may be. Hence, whenever the guide is blind, it must follow that what

blind man soever leans on him must come to a bad end. Therefore it is

written that, "If the blind lead the blind, both fall into the ditch."

This cry has been long raised against our Mother Tongue, for the

reasons which will be argued below.

After this cry the blind men above mentioned, who are infinite, as it

were with one hand on the shoulder of these false witnesses, have

fallen into the ditch of false opinion, from which they know not how

to escape. From the use of the sight of discretion the mass of the

people are debarred, because each being occupied from the early years

of his life with some trade, he so directs his mind to that, by force

of necessity, that he understands nought else. And forasmuch as the

habit of virtue, moral as well as intellectual, cannot possibly be had

all on a sudden, but it must be acquired through long custom, and as

these people place their custom in some art, and care not to discern

other things, it is impossible to them to have discretion. Wherefore

it happens that often they cry aloud: "Long live Death!" and "Let Life

die!" because some one begins the cry. And this is the most dangerous

defect in their blindness. For this reason Boethius judges glory of

the people vain, because he sees it to be without discernment. These

persons are to be termed sheep and not men; for if a sheep should leap

over a precipice of a thousand feet, all the others would follow after

it; and if one sheep, for some cause or other, in crossing a road,

leaps, all the others leap, even when they see nothing to leap over.

And I once saw many leap into a well, because one had leapt into it,

believing perhaps that it was leaping a wall; notwithstanding that the

shepherd, weeping and shouting, with arms and breast set himself

against them.

The second faction against our Mother Tongue springs from a malicious

self-justification. There are many who would rather be thought masters

than be such; and to avoid the opposite--that is, to be held not to be

such--they always cast blame on the material they work on, or upon the

instrument; as the clumsy smith blames the iron given to him, and the

bad harpist blames the harp, thinking to cast the blame of the bad

blade and of the bad music upon the iron and upon the harp, and to

lift it from themselves. Thus there are some, and not a few, who

desire that a man may hold them to be orators; and to excuse

themselves for not speaking, or for speaking badly, they accuse or

throw blame on the material, that is, their own Mother Tongue, and

praise that of other lands, which they are not required to employ. And

he who wishes to see wherefore this iron is to be blamed, let him look

at the work which good artificers make of it, and he will understand

the malice of those who, in casting blame upon it, think thereby to

excuse themselves. Against such as these, Tullius exclaims in the

beginning of his book, which he names the book "De Finibus," because

in his time they blamed the Roman Latin and praised the Greek grammar.

And thus I say, for like reasons, that these men vilify the Italian

tongue, and glorify that of Provence.

The third faction against our Mother Tongue springs from greed of

vainglory. There are many who, by describing certain things in some

other language, and by praising that language, deem themselves to be

more worthy of admiration than if they described them in their own.

And undoubtedly to learn well a foreign tongue is deserving of some

praise for intellect; but it is a blameable thing to applaud that

language beyond truth, to glorify one's self for such an acquisition.

The fourth springs from an invention of envy. So that, as it is said

above, envy is always where there is equality. Amongst the men of one

nation there is the equality of the native tongue; and because one

knows not how to use it like the other, therefrom springs envy. The

envious man then argues, not blaming himself for not knowing how to

speak like him who does speak as he should, but he blames that which

is the material of his work, in order to rob, by depreciating the work

on that side, him who does speak, of honour and fame; like him who

should find fault with the blade of a sword, not in order to throw

blame on the sword, but on the whole work of the master.

The fifth and last faction springs from vileness of mind. The

magnanimous man always praises himself in his heart; and so the

pusillanimous man, on the contrary, always deems himself less than he

is. And because to magnify and to diminish always have respect to

something, by comparison with which the large-minded man makes himself

great and the small-minded man makes himself small, it results

therefrom that the magnanimous man always makes others less than they

are, and the pusillanimous makes others always greater. And therefore

with that measure wherewith a man measures himself, he measures his

own things, which are as it were a part of himself. It results that to

the magnanimous man his own things always appear better than they are,

and those of others less good; the pusillanimous man always believes

his things to be of little value, and those of others of much worth.

Wherefore many, on account of this vileness of mind, depreciate their

native tongue, and applaud that of others; and all such as these are

the abominable wicked men of Italy who hold this precious Mother

Tongue in vile contempt, which if it be vile in any case, is so only

inasmuch as it sounds in the evil mouth of these adulterers, under

whose guidance go those blind men of whom I spoke in the first

argument.

CHAPTER XII.

If flames of fire should issue visibly through the windows of a house,

and if any one should ask if there were fire within it, and if another

should answer "Yes" to him, one would not well know how to judge which

of those might be mocking the most. Not otherwise would the question

and the answer pass between me and that man who should ask me if love

for my own language is in me, and if I should answer "Yes" to him,

after the arguments propounded above.

But, nevertheless, it has to be proved that not only love, but the

most perfect love for it exists in me, and again its adversaries must

be blamed. Whilst demonstrating this to him who will understand well,

I will tell how I became the friend of it, and then how my friendship

is confirmed.

I say that (as Tullius writes in his book on Friendship, not

dissenting from the opinion of the Philosopher opened up in the eighth

and in the ninth of the Ethics) Neighbourhood and Goodness are,

naturally, the causes of the birth of Love: Benevolence, Study, and

Custom are the causes of the growth of Love. And there have been all

these causes to produce and to strengthen the love which I bear to my

Native Language, as I shall briefly demonstrate. A thing is so much

the nearer in proportion as it is most nearly allied to all the other

things of its own kind; wherefore, of all men the son is nearest to

the father, and of all the Arts, Medicine is nearest to the Doctor,

and Music to the Musician, because they are more allied to them than

the others. Of all parts of the earth the nearest is that whereon a

man lives, because he is most united to it. And thus his own Native

Language is nearest to him, inasmuch as he is most united to it; for

it, and it alone, is first in the mind before any other. And not only

of itself is it united, but by accident, inasmuch as it is united with

the persons nearest to him, as his parents, and his fellow-citizens,

and his own people. And this is his own Mother Tongue, which is not

only nearest, but especially the nearest to each man. Therefore, if

near neighbourhood be the seed of friendship, as is said above, it is

manifest that it has been one of the causes of the love which I bear

to my Native Language, which is nearer to me than the others. The

above-mentioned cause, whereby that alone which stands first in each

mind is most bound to it, gave rise to the custom of the people, that

the first-born sons should succeed to the inheritance solely as being

the nearest relatives; and because the nearest relatives, therefore

the most beloved.

Again, Goodness made me a friend to it. And here it is to be known

that all goodness inherent in anything is loveable in that thing; as

in manhood to be well bearded, and in womanhood to be all over the

face quite free from hair; as in the setter to have good scent, and as

in the greyhound to be swift. And in proportion as it is native, so

much the more is it delightful. Hence, although each virtue is

loveable in man, that is the most loveable in him which is most human:

and this is Justice, which alone is in the rational part, or rather in

the intellectual, that is, in the Will. This is so loveable that as

says the Philosopher in the fifth book of the Ethics, its enemies love

it, such as thieves and robbers; and, therefore, we see that its

opposite, that is, Injustice, is especially hated; such as treachery,

ingratitude, falsehood, theft, rapine, deceit, and their like; the

which are such inhuman sins, that, in order to excuse himself from the

infamy of such, it is granted through long custom that a man may speak

of himself, as has been said above, and may say if he be faithful and

loyal. Of this virtue I shall speak hereafter more fully in the

fourteenth treatise; and here quitting it, I return to the

proposition. Having proved, then, that the goodness of a thing is

loved the more the more it is innate, the more it is to be loved and

commended for itself, it remains to see what that goodness is. And we

see that, in all speech, to express a thought well and clearly is the

thing most to be admired and commended. This, then, is its first

goodness. And forasmuch as this is in our Mother Tongue, as is made

evident in another chapter, it is manifest that it has been the cause

of the love which I bear to it; since, as has been said, "Goodness is

the producer of Love."

CHAPTER XIII.

Having said how in the Mother Tongue there are those two things which

have made me its friend, that is, nearness to me and its innate

goodness, I will tell how by kindness and union in study, and through

the benevolence of long use, the friendship is confirmed and grows.

Firstly, I say that I for myself have received from it the greatest

benefits. And, therefore, it is to be known that, amongst all

benefits, that is the greatest which is most precious to him who

receives it; and nothing is so precious as that through which all

other things are wished; and all the other things are wished for the

perfection of him who wishes. Wherefore, inasmuch as a man may have

two perfections, one first and one second (the first causes him to be,

the second causes him to be good), if the Native Language has been to

me the cause of the one and of the other, I have received from it the

greatest benefit. And that it may have been the cause of this

condition in me can be shown briefly. The efficient cause for the

existence of things is not one only, but among many efficient causes

one is the chief of the others, hence the fire and the hammer are the

efficient causes of the sword-blade, although the workman is

especially so. This my Mother Tongue was the bond of union between my

forefathers, who spoke with it, even as the fire is the link between

the iron and the smith who makes the knife; therefore it is evident

that it co-operated in my birth, and so it was in some way the cause

of my being. Again, this my Mother Tongue was my introducer into the

path of knowledge, which is the ultimate perfection, inasmuch as with

it I entered into the Latin Language, and with it I was taught; the

which Latin was then the way of further advancement for me. And so it

is evident and known by me that this my language has been my great

benefactor. Also it has been engaged with me in one self-same study,

and this I can thus prove. Each thing naturally studies its

self-preservation; hence, if the Mother Tongue could seek anything of

itself, it would seek that; and that would be to secure for itself a

position of the greatest stability: but greater stability it could not

secure than by uniting itself with number and with rhyme.

And this self-same study has been mine, as is so evident that it

requires no testimony; therefore its study and mine have been one and

the same, whereby the harmony of friendship is confirmed and

increased. Also between us there has been the benevolence of long use:

for from the beginning of my life I have had with it kind fellowship

and conversation, and have used it, when deliberating, interpreting,

and questioning; wherefore, if friendship increases through long use,

as in all reason appears, it is manifest that in me it has increased

especially, for with this my Mother Tongue I have spent all my time.

And thus one sees that to the shaping of this friendship there have

co-operated all causes of birth and growth. Therefore, let it be

concluded that not only Love, but the most Perfect Love, is that which

I have for it. So it is, and ought to be.

Thus, casting the eyes backwards and gathering up the afore-stated

reasons, one can see that this Bread, with which the Meat of the

under-written Poems ought to be eaten, is made clear enough of

blemishes, and of fault in the nature of its grain. Wherefore, it is

time to attend to and serve up the viands.

This will be that barley-bread with which a thousand will satisfy

themselves; and my full baskets shall overflow with it. This will be

that new Light, that new Sun, which shall rise when the sun of this

our day shall set, and shall give light to those who are in darkness

and in gloom because the sun of this our day gives light to them no

more.

* * * * *

The Second Treatise.

Ye who the third Heaven move, intent of thought,

Hear reasoning that is within my heart,

Thoughts that to none but you I can impart:

Heaven, that is moved by you, my life has brought

To where it stands, therefore I pray you heed

What I shall say about the life I lead.

To you I tell the heart's new cares: always

The sad Soul weeps within it, and there hears

Voice of a Spirit that condemns her tears,

A Spirit that descends in your star's rays.

Thought that once fed the grieving heart was sweet,

Thought that oft fled up to your Father's feet.

There it beheld a Lady glorified,

Of whom so sweetly it discoursed to me

That the Soul said, "With her I long to be!"

Now One appears that drives the thought aside,

And masters me with so effectual might

That my heart quivers to the outward sight.

This on a Lady fixes my regard

And says, "Who seeks where his salvation lies

Must gaze intently in this Lady's eyes,

Nor dread the sighs of anguish!" O, ill-starred!

Such opposite now breaks the humble dream

Of the crowned angel in the glory beam.

Still, therefore, the Soul weeps, "The tender stir,"

It says, "of thought that once consoled me flies!"

That troubled one asks, "When into thine eyes

Looked she? Why doubted they my words of her?"

I said, "Her eyes bear death to such as I:

Yet, vainly warned, I gaze on her and die.

"Thou art not dead, but in a vain dismay,

Dear Soul of ours so lost in thy distress,"

Whispers a spirit voice of tenderness.

"This Lady's beauty darkens all your day,

Vile fear possesses you; see, she is lowly

Pitiful, courteous, though so wise and holy.

"Think thou to call her Mistress evermore:

Save thou delude thyself, then shall there shine

High miracles before thee, so divine

That thou shalt say, O Love, when I adore,

True Lord, behold the handmaid of the Lord,

Be it unto me according to thy Word!"

My song, I do believe there will be few

Who toil to understand thy reasoning;

But if thou pass, perchance, to those who bring

No skill to give thee the attention due,

Then pray I, dear last-born, let them rejoice

To find at least a music in my voice.

CHAPTER I.

Since I, the servant, with preliminary discourse in the preceding

Treatise, have with all due care prepared my bread, the time now

summons, and requires my ship to leave the port: wherefore, having

trimmed the mizen-mast of reason to the wind of my desire, I enter the

ocean with the hope of an easy voyage, and a healthful happy haven to

be reached at the end of my supper. But in order that my food may be

more profitable, before the first dish comes on the table I wish to

show how it ought to be eaten. I say then, as is narrated in the first

chapter, that this exposition must be Literal and Allegorical; and to

make this explicit one should know that it is possible to understand a

book in four different ways, and that it ought to be explained chiefly

in this manner.

The one is termed Literal, and this is that which does not extend

beyond the text itself, such as is the fit narration of that thing

whereof you are discoursing, an appropriate example of which is the

third Song, which discourses of Nobility.

Another is termed Allegorical, and it is that which is concealed under

the veil of fables, and is a Truth concealed under a beautiful

Untruth; as when Ovid says that Orpheus with his lute made the wild

beasts tame, and made the trees and the stones to follow him, which

signifies that the wise man with the instrument of his voice makes

cruel hearts gentle and humble, and makes those follow his will who

have not the living force of knowledge and of art; who, having not the

reasoning life of any knowledge whatever, are as the stones. And in

order that this hidden thing should be discovered by the wise, it will

be demonstrated in the last Treatise. Verily the theologians take this

meaning otherwise than do the poets: but, because my intention here is

to follow the way of the poets, I shall take the Allegorical sense

according as it is used by the poets.

The third sense is termed Moral; and this is that which the readers

ought intently to search for in books, for their own advantage and for

that of their descendants; as one can espy in the Gospel, when Christ

ascended the Mount for the Transfiguration, that, of the twelve

Apostles, He took with Him only three. From which one can understand

in the Moral sense that in the most secret things we ought to have but

little company.

The fourth sense is termed Mystical, that is, above sense,

supernatural; and this it is, when spiritually one expounds a writing

which even in the Literal sense by the things signified bears express

reference to the Divine things of Eternal Glory; as one can see in

that Song of the Prophet which says that by the exodus of the people

of Israel from Egypt Judæa is made holy and free. That this happens to

be true according to the letter is evident. Not less true is that

which it means spiritually, that in the Soul's liberation from Sin (or

in the exodus of the Soul from Sin) it is made holy and free in its

powers.

But in demonstrating these, the Literal must always go first, as that

in whose sense the others are included, and without which it would be

impossible and irrational to understand the others. Especially is it

impossible in the Allegorical, because, in each thing which has a

within and a without, it is impossible to come to the within if you do

not first come to the without. Wherefore, since in books the Literal

meaning is always external, it is impossible to reach the others,

especially the Allegorical, without first coming to the Literal.

Again, it is impossible, because in each thing, natural and

artificial, it is impossible to proceed to the form without having

first laid down the matter upon which the form should be. Thus, it is

impossible for the form of the gold to come, if the matter, that is,

its subject, is not first laid down and prepared; or for the form of

the ark to come, if the material, that is, the wood, be not first laid

down and prepared. Therefore, since the Literal meaning is always the

subject and the matter of the others, especially of the Allegorical,

it is impossible to come first to the meaning of the others before

coming to it. Again, it is impossible, because in each thing, natural

and artificial, it is impossible to proceed unless the foundation be

first laid, as in the house, so also in the mind. Therefore, since

demonstration must be the building up of Knowledge, and Literal

demonstration must be the foundation of the other methods of

interpreting, especially of the Allegorical, it is impossible to come

first to the others before coming to that. Again, if it were possible

that it could be so ordered, it would be irrational, that is, out of

order; and, therefore, one would proceed with, much fatigue and with

much error. Hence, as the Philosopher says in the first book of the

Physics, Nature desires that we proceed in due order in our search for

knowledge, that is, by proceeding from that which we know well to that

which we know not so well; so I say that Nature desires it, inasmuch

as this way to knowledge is innate in us; and therefore, if the other

meanings, apart from the Literal, are less understood--which they are,

as evidently appears--it would be irrational to demonstrate them if

the Literal had not first been demonstrated.

I, then, for these reasons will discourse in due order of each Song,

firstly upon its Literal meaning, and after that I will discourse of

its Allegory, that is, the hidden Truth, and sometimes I will touch

incidentally on the other meanings as may be convenient to place and

time.

CHAPTER II.

Beginning, then, I say that the star of Venus had twice revolved in

that circle which causes the evening and the morning to appear,

according to the two varying seasons, since the death of that blessed

Beatrice, who lives in Heaven with the Angels, and on Earth with my

soul; when that gentle Lady, of whom I made mention at the end of the

"Vita Nuova," first appeared before my eyes, accompanied by Love, and

assumed a position in my mind. And, as has been stated by me in the

little book referred to, more because of her gentle goodness than from

choice of mine, it befell that I consented to be her servant. For she

appeared impassioned with such sorrow for my sad widowed life that the

spirits of my eyes became especially friendly to her; and, so

disposed, they then depicted her to be such that my good-will was

content to espouse itself to that image. But because Love is not born

suddenly, nor grows great nor comes to perfection in haste, but

desires time and food for thought, especially there where there are

antagonistic thoughts which impede it, there must needs be, before

this new Love could be perfect, a great battle between the thought of

its food and of that which was antagonistic to it, which still held

the fortress of my mind for that glorious Beatrice. For the one was

succoured on one side continually by the ever-present vision, and the

other on the opposite side by the memory of the past. And the help of

the ever-present sight increased each day, which memory could not do,

in opposing that which to a certain degree prevented me from turning

the face towards the past. Wherefore it seemed to me so wonderful, and

also so hard to endure, that I could not support it, and with a loud

cry (to excuse myself from the struggle, in which it seemed to me that

I had failed in courage) I lifted up my voice towards that part whence

came the victory of the new thought, which was full of virtuous power,

even the power of celestial virtue; and I began to say: "You! who the

third Heaven move, intent of thought." For the intelligent

understanding of which Song, one must first know its divisions well,

so that it will then be easy to perceive its meaning.

In order that it may no longer be necessary to preface the

explanations of the others, I say that the order which will be taken

in this Treatise I intend to keep through all the others. I say, then,

that the proposed Song is contained within three principal parts. The

first is the first verse of that, in which certain Intelligences are

induced to listen to what I intend to say, or rather by a more usual

form of speech we should call them Angels, who are in the revolution

of the Heaven of Venus, as the movers thereof. The second is in the

lines which follow after the first, in which is made manifest that

which I felt spiritually amidst various thoughts. The third is in the

last lines, wherein the man begins to speak to the work itself, as if

to comfort it, as it were, and all these three parts are in due order

to be demonstrated, as has been said above.

CHAPTER III.

That we may more easily perceive the Literal meaning of the first

division, to which we now attend, it is requisite to know who and what

are those who are summoned to my audience, and what is that third

Heaven which I say is moved by them. And firstly I will speak of the

Heaven; then I will speak of those whom I address And although with

regard to the truth concerning those things it is possible to know but

little, yet so much as human reason can discern gives more delight

than the best known and most certain of the things judged by the

sense; according to the opinion of the Philosopher in his book on

Animals.

I say, then, that concerning the number of the Heavens and their site,

different opinions are held by many, although the truth at last may be

found. Aristotle believed, following merely the ancient foolishness of

the Astrologers, that there might be only eight Heavens, of which the

last one, and which contained all, might be that where the fixed stars

are, that is, the eighth sphere, and that beyond it there could be no

other. Again, he believed that the Heaven of the Sun might be

immediate with that of the Moon, that is, second to us. And this

opinion of his, so erroneous, he who wishes can see in the second book

on Heaven and the World, which is in the second of the Books on

Natural History. In fact, he excuses himself for this in the twelfth

book of the Metaphysics, where he clearly proves himself to have

followed also another opinion where he was obliged to speak of

Astrology. Ptolemy, then, perceiving that the eighth sphere is moved

by many movements, seeing its circle to depart from the right circle,

which turns from East to West, constrained by the principles of

Philosophy, which of necessity desires a Primum Mobile, a most simple

one, supposed another Heaven to be outside the Heaven of the fixed

stars, which might make that revolution from East to West which I say

is completed in twenty-four hours nearly, that is, in twenty-three

hours, fourteen parts of the fifteen of another, counting roughly.

Therefore, according to him, and according to that which is held in

Astrology and in Philosophy since those movements were seen, there are

nine moveable Heavens; the site of which is evident and determined,

according to an Art which is termed Perspective, Arithmetical and

Geometrical, by which and by other sensible experiences it is visibly

and reasonably seen, as in the eclipses of the Sun it appears

sensibly, that the Moon is below the Sun; and as by the testimony of

Aristotle, who saw with his own eyes, according to what he says in the

second book on Heaven and the World, the Moon, being new, to enter

below Mars, on the side not shining, and Mars to remain concealed so

long that he re-appeared on the other bright side of the Moon, which

was towards the West.

CHAPTER IV.

And the order of the houses is this, that the first that they

enumerate is that where the Moon is; the second is that where Mercury

is; the third is that where Venus is; the fourth is that where the Sun

is; the fifth is that where Mars is; the sixth is that where Jupiter

is; the seventh is that where Saturn is; the eighth is that of the

Stars; the ninth is that which is not visible except by that movement

which is mentioned above, which they designate the great Crystalline

sphere, diaphanous, or rather all transparent. Truly, beyond all

these, the Catholics place the Empyrean Heaven, which is as much as to

say, the Heaven of Flame, or rather the Luminous Heaven; and they

assign it to be immoveable, in order to have in itself, according to

each part, that which its material desires. And this is why that first

moved--the Primum Mobile--has such extremely rapid motion. For,

because of the most fervent appetite which each part of it has to be

united with each part of that most Divine Heaven of Peace, in which it

revolves with so much desire, its velocity is almost incomprehensible.

And this quiet and peaceful Heaven is the place of that Supreme Deity

who from above beholds the whole. This is the place of the blessed

Spirits, according as Holy Church teaches, which cannot speak falsely;

and even Aristotle seems to feel this, to him who understands him

well, in the first book of Heaven and the World. This is the highest

bound of the World, within which the whole World is included, and

beyond which there is nothing. And it is in no place, but was formed

alone in the First Mind, which the Greeks term Protonoe. This is that

magnificence of which the Psalmist spoke when he sang to God: "Thy

glory is raised above the Heavens."

So, then, gathering together this which is discussed, it seems that

there may be ten Heavens, of which the Heaven of Venus may be the

third; whereof mention is made in that part which I intend to

demonstrate. And it is to be known that each Heaven below the

Crystalline has two firm poles as to itself; and the ninth has them

firm and fixed, and not mutable in any respect. And each one, the

ninth even as the others, has a circle, which one may term the equator

of its own Heaven; which equally, in each part of its revolution, is

remote from one pole and from the other, as he who rolls an apple or

any other round thing can sensibly perceive. And this circle has more

swiftness in its movement than any other part of its Heaven, in each

Heaven, as he may perceive who considers well. And each part, in

proportion as it is nearer to it, moves so much the more swiftly; so

much the slower in proportion as it is more remote and nearer to the

pole; since its revolution is less, and it must of necessity be in one

self-same time with the greater. I say again, that in proportion as

the Heaven is nearer to the equatorial circle, so much the more noble

is it in comparison to its poles; since it has more motion and more

actuality and more life and more form and more touch from that which

is above itself, and consequently has more virtue. Hence the stars in

the Heaven of the fixed stars are more full of power amongst

themselves in proportion as they are nearer to that circle.

And upon the back of this circle in the Heaven of Venus, of which I

now speak, is a little sphere, which revolves by itself in this

Heaven, the circle of which Astrologers call Epicycle; and as the

great sphere revolves about two poles, so does this little sphere: and

so has this little sphere the equatorial circle; and so much the more

noble it is in proportion as it is nearer to those: and in the arc, or

rather back, of this circle is fixed the most brilliant star of Venus.

And, although it may be said that there are ten Heavens according to

strict Truth, this number does not comprehend them all: for that of

which mention is made, the Epicycle, in which the star is fixed, is a

Heaven by itself, or rather sphere; and it has not one essence with

that which bears it, although it may be more like to it than to the

others, and with it is called one Heaven, and they name the one and

the other from the star. How the other Heavens and the other stars may

be is not for present discussion; let it suffice that the nature of

the third Heaven, with which I am at present concerned, has been told,

and concerning which all that is at present needful has been shown.

CHAPTER V.

Since it has been shown in the preceding chapter what this third

Heaven is, and how it is ordered in itself, it remains to show who

those are who move it. It is then to be known, in the first place,

that the movers thereof are substances apart from material, that is,

Intelligences, which the common people term Angels: and of these

creatures, as of the Heavens, different persons have had different

ideas, although the truth may be found. There were certain

Philosophers, of whom Aristotle appears to be one in his Metaphysics,

although in the first book on Heaven and Earth incidentally he appears

to think otherwise, who only believed these to be so many as there are

revolutions in the Heavens, and no more; saying, that the others would

have been eternally in vain, without operation, which was impossible,

inasmuch as their being is their operation. There were others, like

Plato, a most excellent man, who place not only so many Intelligences

as there are movements in Heaven, but even as there are species of

things, that is, manners of things; as of one species are all mankind,

and of another all the gold, and of another all the silver, and so

with all: and they are of opinion that as the Intelligences of the

Heavens are generators of those movements each after his kind, so

these were generators of the other things, each one being a type of

its species: and Plato calls them _Ideas_, which is as much as to

say, so many universal forms and natures.

The Gentiles called them Gods and Goddesses, although they could not

understand those so philosophically as Plato did; and they adored

their images, and built large temples to them, as to Juno, whom they

called the Goddess of Power; as to Vulcan, whom they called the God of

Fire; as to Pallas, or rather Minerva, whom they called the Goddess of

Wisdom; and to Ceres, whom they called the Goddess of Corn. Opinions

such as these the testimony of the Poets makes manifest, for they

describe to a certain extent the mode of the Gentiles both in their

sacrifices and in their faith; and it is testified also in many names,

remains of antiquity, or in names of places and ancient buildings, as

he who will can easily find. And although these opinions above

mentioned might be built upon a good foundation by human reason and by

no slight knowledge, yet the Truth was not seen by them, either from

defect of reason or from defect of instruction. Yet even by reason it

was possible to see that very numerous were the creatures above

mentioned who are not such as men can understand. And the one reason

is this: no one doubts, neither Philosopher, nor Gentile, nor Jew, nor

Christian, nor any one of any sect, that they are either the whole or

the greater part full of all Blessedness, and that those blessed ones

are in a most perfect state. Therefore, since that which is here Human

Nature may have not only one Beatitude, but two Beatitudes, as that of

the Civil Life and that of the Contemplative, it would be irrational

if we should see these Celestial Beings to have the Beatitude of the

Active Life, that is, the Civil, in the government of the World, and

not to have that of the Contemplative, which is the most excellent and

most Divine.

But since that which has the Beatitude of the Civil government cannot

have the other, because their intellect is one and perpetual, there

must be others beyond this ministry, who live only in contemplation.

And because this latter life is more Divine--and in proportion as the

thing is more Divine so much the more is it in the image of God--it is

evident that this life is more beloved of God: and if it be more

beloved, so much the more vast has its Beatitude been; and if it has

been more vast, so much the more vivifying power has He given to it

rather than to the other; therefore one concludes that there may De a

much larger number of those creatures than the effects tend to show.

And this is not opposed to that which Aristotle seems to state in the

tenth book of the Ethics, that to the separate substances the

Contemplative Life must be requisite; as also the Active Life must be

imperative to them. Nevertheless, in the contemplation of certain

truths the revolution of the Heaven follows, which is the government

of the World; which is, as it were, a Civil government ordained and

comprehended in the contemplation of the movers, that is, the ruling

Intelligences. The other reason is, that no effect is greater than the

cause, because the cause cannot give that which it has not; wherefore,

since the Divine Intellect is the cause of all, especially of the

Human Intellect, it follows that the Human Intellect does not dominate

the Divine, but is dominated by it in proportion to the superior power

of the Divine. Hence, if we, by the reason above stated, and by many

others, understand God to have been able to create Spiritual Creatures

almost innumerable, it is quite evident that He has made them in this

great number. Many other reasons it were possible to see: but let

these suffice for the present. Nor let any one marvel if these and

other reasons which we could adduce concerning this are not fully

demonstrated; since likewise we ought to wonder at their excellence,

which overpowers the eyes of the Human Mind, as the Philosopher says

in the second book of the Metaphysics, and he affirms their existence.

Though we have not any perception of them from which our knowledge can

begin, yet some light from their most vivacious essence shines upon

our intellect, inasmuch as we perceive the above-mentioned reasons and

many others, even as he who has the eyes closed affirms the air to be

luminous, because of some little brightness or ray of light which

passes through the pupils; as it is with the bat, for not otherwise

are the eyes of the intellect closed, so long as the soul is bound and

prisoned by the organs of our body.

CHAPTER VI.

It has been said that, through defective instruction, the ancients saw

not the Truth concerning the Spiritual Creatures, although the people

of Israel were in part instructed by their Prophets, through whom by

many modes of speech and in many ways God had spoken to them, as the

Apostle says. But we are therein instructed by Him who came from God,

by Him who made them, by Him who preserves them, that is, by the

Emperor of the Universe, who is Christ the Son of the Supreme God, and

the Son of the Virgin Mary, a woman truly, and the daughter of Joseph

and Anna--very Man, who was slain by us in order that He might bring

us Life; who was the Light which enlightens us in the Darkness, even

as John the Evangelist says; and He told us the Truth of those things

which we could not have known without Him, nor seen truly. The first

thing and the first secret which He showed us was one of the

before-mentioned Beings or creatures. This was that one, His great

Legate, the Angel Gabriel, who came to Mary, a young damsel of

thirteen years, on the part of the Heavenly Saviour. This our Saviour,

with His own mouth, said, that the Father could give Him many Legions

of Angels. This He denied not, when it was said to Him that the Father

had commanded His Angels that they should minister unto Him and should

serve Him. Wherefore, it is evident to us that these creatures are in

a very great number; since His Spouse and Secretary, Holy Church, of

whom Solomon says: "Who is this that cometh forth from the Desert,

full of those things which give delight, leaning upon her friend?"

says, believes, and preaches these most noble creatures to be almost

innumerable; and She divides them into three Hierarchies, that is to

say, three holy, or rather Divine, Principalities: and each Hierarchy

has three orders, so that nine orders of spiritual creatures the

Church holds and affirms.

The first is that of the Angels, the second of the Archangels, the

third of the Thrones; and these three orders make the first

Hierarchy--not first as to nobility, nor as to creation, for the

others are more noble, and all were created together, but first in

degree, according to our perception of their exaltation.

Then there are the Dominations; after them the Virtues; then the

Principalities; and these make the second Hierarchy.

Above these are the Powers and the Cherubim, and above all are the

Seraphim; and these make the third Hierarchy.

And the most potent reason for their contemplation is the number in

which the Hierarchies are, and that in which the orders are. For,

since the Divine Majesty is in Three Persons, which have one

substance, it is possible to contemplate them triply. For it is

possible to contemplate the Supreme Power of the Father, which the

first Hierarchy gazes upon, namely, that which is first by nobility,

and which we enumerate last. And it is possible to contemplate the

Supreme Wisdom of the Son; and upon this the second Hierarchy gazes.

And it is possible to contemplate the Supreme and most fervent Charity

of the Holy Spirit; and upon this the third Hierarchy gazes, which,

being nearest to us, gives of the gifts which it receives.

And, since it is possible to regard each person in the Divine Trinity

triply, so in each Hierarchy there are three orders which contemplate

diversely. It is possible to consider the Father having regard to none

but Him; and this is the contemplation of the Seraphim, who see more

of the First Cause than any other Angelic Nature. It is possible to

consider the Father according as He has relation to the Son, that is,

how He is apart from Him, and how united with Him; and this is the

contemplation of the Cherubim. It is possible again to consider the

Father according as from Him proceeds the Holy Spirit, and how it is

apart from Him and how united with Him; and this is the contemplation

of the Powers.

And in like way it is possible to contemplate the Son and the Holy

Spirit.

Wherefore, there must be nine orders of contemplative Spirits to gaze

into the Light, which alone beholds itself completely. And this is not

the place to be silent so much as one word. I say, that of all these

orders some were lost as soon as they were created, perhaps in number

of the tenth part, to restore which Human Nature was created. The

numbers, the orders, the Hierarchies, declare the glory of the movable

Heavens, which are nine; and the tenth announces this Unity and

stability of God. And therefore the Psalmist says: "The Heavens

declare the glory of God, and the Firmament showeth His handiwork."

Wherefore it is reasonable to believe that the movers of the Heaven of

the Moon are of the order of the Angels, and those of Mercury may be

the Archangels, and those of Venus may be the Thrones, in whom the

Love of the Holy Spirit being innate, they do their work conformably

to it, which means that the revolution of that Heaven is full of Love.

The form of the said Heaven takes from this a virtue by whose glow

souls here below are kindled to love according to their disposition.

And because the ancients perceived that Heaven to be here below the

cause of Love, they said that Love was the son of Venus, as Virgil

testifies in the first book of the Æneid, where Venus says to Love:

"Oh! son, my virtue, son of the great Father, who takest no heed of

the darts of Typhoeus." And Ovid so testifies in the fifth book of

his Metamorphoses, when he says that Venus said to Love: "Son, my

arms, my power." And there are Thrones which are ordered to the

government of this Heaven in number not great, concerning which the

Philosophers and the Astrologers have thought differently, according

as they held different opinions concerning its revolutions. But all

may be agreed, as many are, in this, as to how many movements it

makes. Of this, as abbreviated in the book of the Aggregation of the

Stars, you may find in the better demonstration of the Astrologers

that there are three: one, according as the star moves towards its

Epicycle; the other, according as the Epicycle moves with its whole

Heaven equally with that of the Sun; the third, according as the whole

of that Heaven moves, following the movement of the starry sphere from

West to East in one hundred years one degree. So that to these Three

Movements there are Three Movers. Again, if the whole of this Heaven

moves and turns with the Epicycle from East to West once in each

natural day, that movement, whether it be caused by some Intelligence

or whether it be through the rapid movement of the Primum Mobile, God

knows, for to me it seems presumptuous to judge. These Movers produce,

caring for that alone, the revolution proper to that sphere which each

one moves. The most noble form of the Heaven, which has in itself the

principle of this passive Nature, revolves, touched by the Moving

Power, which cares for this; and I say touched, not by a bodily touch,

but by a Power which directs itself to that operation. And these

Movers are those to whom I begin to speak and to whom I put my

inquiry.

CHAPTER VII.

According to that which is said above in the third chapter of this

treatise, in order to understand well the first part of the Song I

comment on, it is requisite to discourse of those Heavens, and of

their Movers; and in the three preceding chapters this has been

discussed. I say, then, to those whom I proved to be Movers of the

Heaven of Venus: "Ye who, with thought intent" (_i.e._, with the

intellect alone, as is said above), "the third Heaven move, Hear

reasoning that is within my heart;" and I do not say "Hear" because

they hear any sound, for they have no sense of hearing; but I say

"Hear," meaning with that hearing which they have, which is of the

understanding through the intellect. I say, "Hear reasoning that is

within my heart," within me, which as yet has not appeared externally.

It is to be known that throughout this Song, according to the one

sense (the Literal), and the other sense (the Allegorical), the Heart

is concerned with the secret within, and not any other special part of

the soul or body. When I have called them to hear that which I wish to

say, I assign two reasons why I ought fitly to speak to them. One is

the novelty of my condition, which, from not having been experienced

by other men, would not be so understood by them as by those who

superintend such effects in their operation. And this reason I touch

upon when I say: "To you alone its new thoughts I impart." The other

reason is: when a man receives a benefit or injury, he ought first to

relate it to him who bestows or inflicts it, if he can, rather than to

others; in order that, if it be a benefit, he who receives it may show

himself grateful towards the benefactor, and, if it be an injury, let

him lead the doer thereof to gentle mercy with sweet words. And this

reason I touch upon when I say: "Heaven, that is moved by you, my life

has brought To where it stands;" that is to say, your operation,

namely, your revolution, is that which has drawn me into the present

condition; therefore I conclude and say that my speech ought to be to

them, such as is said; and I say here: "Therefore to you 'tis need

That I should speak about the life I lead." And after these reasons

assigned, I beseech them to listen when I speak.

But, because in each manner of speech the speaker especially ought to

look to persuasion, that is, to the pleasing of the audience, as that

which is the beginning of all other persuasions, as do the

Rhetoricians, and the most powerful persuasion to render the audience

attentive is to promise to say new and wonderful things, I add to the

prayer made for attention, this persuasion, or embellishment,

announcing to them my intention to speak of new things, that is, the

division which is in my mind; and great things, namely, the power of

their star; and I say this in those last words of this first part:

To you I'll tell the heart's new cares: always

The sad Soul weeps within it, and there hears

Voice of a Spirit that condemns her tears,

A Spirit that descends through your star's rays.

And to the full understanding of these words, I say that this Spirit

is no other than a frequent thought how to commend and beautify this

new Lady. And this Soul is no other than another thought, accompanied

with acquiescence, which, repudiating that Spirit, commends and

beautifies the memory of that glorious Beatrice. But, again, because

the last sentiment of the mind, acquiescence, is held by that thought

which memory assisted, I call it the Soul, and the other the Spirit;

as we are accustomed to call the City those who hold it, and not those

who fight it, although the one and the other may be citizens. I say

also, that this Spirit comes on the rays of the star, because one

desires to know that the rays of each Heaven are the way by which

their virtue descends into things here below. And since the rays are

no other than a light which comes from the source of Light through the

air even to the thing illuminated, and the light has no source except

the star, because the other Heaven is transparent, I say not that this

Spirit, this thought, comes from their Heaven entirely, but from their

star. And their star, through the nobility of its Movers, is of such

virtue that in our souls, and in other things, it has very great

power, notwithstanding that it is so far from us, about one hundred

and sixty-seven times farther than it is to the centre of the Earth,

which is three thousand two hundred and fifty miles. And this is the

Literal exposition of the first part of the Song.

CHAPTER VIII.

What I have said shows clearly enough the Literal meaning of the first

part. In the second, there is to be understood how it makes manifest

what I experienced from the struggle within me; and this part has two

divisions. In the first place it describes the quality of these

oppositions, according as their cause was within me. Then I narrate

what the one and the other voice of opposition said; and upon that

firstly which described what was being lost, in the passage which is

the second of that part and the third of the Song. In evidence, then,

of the meaning of the first division, it is to be known that things

must be named by that part of their form which is the noblest and

best, as Man by Reason, and not by Sense, nor by aught else which is

less noble; therefore, when one speaks of the living man, one should

understand the man using Reason, which is his especial Life, and is

the action of his noblest part. And, therefore, whoso departs from

Reason and uses only the Senses is not a living man, but a living

beast, as says that most excellent Boethius, "Let the Ass live."

Rightly I speak, because thought is the right act of reason, wherefore

the beasts who have it not do not think; and I speak not only of the

lesser beasts, but of those who have a human appearance with the

spirit of a sheep or of some other abominable beast. I say then:

"Thought that once fed my grieving heart"--thought, that is, of the

inner life--"was sweet" (sweet, insomuch as it is persuasive, that is,

pleasing, or beautiful, gentle, delightful); this thought often sped

away to the feet of the Father of those Spirits to whom I speak, that

is, God; that is to say, that I in thought contemplated the realm of

the Blessed. "Thought that once fled up to the Father's feet." And I

name the final cause immediately, because I ascended there above in

thought when I say, "There I beheld a Lady glorified," to let you

understand that I was certain, and am certain by its gracious

revelation, that she was in Heaven; wherefore I, thinking many times

how this was possible for me, went thither, rapt, as it were. Then

subsequently I speak of the effect of this thought, in order to let

you understand its sweetness, which was such that it made me desirous

of Death, that I also might go where she was gone. And of this I speak

there: "Of whom so sweetly it discoursed to me That the Soul said,

'With her would I might be!'" And this is the root of one of the

struggles which was in me. And it is to be known that here one terms

Thought, and not Soul, that which ascended to see that Blessed Spirit,

because it was an especial thought sent on that mission; the Soul is

understood, as is stated in the preceding chapter, as thought in

general, with acquiescence.

Then, when I say, "Now One appears that drives the thought aside," I

touch the root of the other struggle, saying how that previous thought

was wont to be the life of me, even as another appears, which makes

that one cease to be. I say, "drives the thought aside," in order to

show that one to be antagonistic, for naturally the opposing one

drives aside the other, and that which is driven appears to yield

through want of power. And I say that this thought, which newly

appears, is powerful in taking hold of me and in subduing my Soul,

saying that it "masters me with such effectual might" that the heart,

that is, my inner life, trembles so much that my countenance shows it

in some new appearance.

Subsequently I show the power of this new thought by its effect,

saying that it makes me "fix my regard" on a Lady, and speaks to me

words of allurement, that is to say, it reasons before the eyes of my

intelligent affection, in order the better to induce me, promising me

that the sight of her eyes is its salvation. And in order to make this

credible to the Soul experienced in love, it says that it is for no

one to gaze into the eyes of this woman who fears the anguish of

laboured sighs. And it is a beautiful mode of rhetoric when externally

it appears that you disembellish a thing, and yet really embellish it

within. This new thought of love could not induce my mind to consent,

except by discoursing of the virtue of the eyes of this fair Lady so

profoundly.

CHAPTER IX.

Now that it is shown how and whereof Love is born, and the antagonist

that fought with me, I must proceed to open the meaning of that part

in which different thoughts contend within me. I say that, firstly,

one must speak on the part of the Soul, that is, of the former

thought, and then of the other; for this reason, that always that

which the speaker intends most especially to say he ought to reserve

in the background, because that which is said finally, remains most in

the mind of the hearer. Therefore, since I mean to speak further, and

to discourse of that which performs the work of those to whom I speak,

rather than of that which undoes this work, it was reasonable first to

mention and to discourse of the condition of the part which was

undone, and then of that which was generated by the other.

But here arises a doubt, which is not to be passed over without

explanation. It would be possible for any one to say: Since Love is

the effect of these Intelligences, to whom I speak, and that of the

first Love might be the same as that of the new Love, why should their

virtue destroy the one, and produce the other? since it ought to

preserve the first, for the reason that each cause loves its effect,

and ought to protect what it loves. To this question one can easily

reply, that the effect of those Spirits, as has been said, is Love:

and since they could not save it except in those who are subject to

their revolution, they transfer it from that part which is beyond

their power to that which is within reach, from the soul departed out

of this life, into that which is yet living; as human nature transfers

in the human form its preservation of the father to the son, because

it cannot in this father preserve perpetually its effect: I say effect

in as far as soul and body are united, and not effect in as far as

that soul, which is divided from the body, lasts for ever, in a nature

more than human. And thus is the question solved.

But since the immortality of the Soul is here touched upon, I will

make a digression upon that; because to discourse of that will make a

fit conclusion to the mention I have made of that living and blessed

Beatrice, of whom I do not intend to speak further in this book.

For proposition I say that, amongst all the bestialities, that is the

most foolish, the most vile, and most damnable which believes no other

life to be after this life; wherefore, if we turn over all books,

whether of philosophers or of the other wise writers, all agree in

this, that in us there is some everlasting principle. And this

especially Aristotle seems to desire in that book on the Soul; this

especially each stoic seems to desire; this Tullius seems to desire,

especially in that book on Old Age. This each of the Poets who have

spoken according to the faith of the Gentiles seems to desire; this

the law seems to desire, among Jews, Saracens, and Tartars, and all

other people who live according to some civil law. And if all these

could be deceived, there would result an impossibility which even to

describe would be horrible. Each man is certain that human nature is

the most perfect of all natures here below. This no one denies: and

Aristotle affirms it when he says, in the twelfth book On Animals,

that man is the most perfect of all the animals. Therefore, since many

who live are entirely mortal, as are the brute animals, and all may

be, whilst they live, without that hope of the other life; if our hope

should be in vain, our want would be greater than that of any other

animal. There have been many who have given this life for that: and

thus it would follow that the most perfect animal, man, would be the

most imperfect, which is impossible; and that that part, namely,

reason, which is his chief perfection, would be in him the cause of

the chief defect: which seems strange to say of the whole. And again

it would follow that Nature, in contradiction to herself, could have

put this hope in the human mind; since it is said that many have

hastened to death of the body that they might live in the other life;

and this also is impossible. Again, we have continual experience of

our immortality in the divination of our dreams, which could not be if

there were no immortal part in us, since immortal must be the

revelation. This part may be either corporeal or incorporeal if one

think well and closely. I say corporeal or incorporeal, because of the

different opinions which I find concerning this. That which is moved,

or rather informed, by an immediate informer, ought to have proportion

to the informer; and between the mortal and the immortal there is no

proportion. Again, we are assured of it by the most truthful doctrine

of Christ, which is the Way, the Truth, and the Light: the Way,

because by it without impediment we go to the happiness of that

immortality; the Truth, because it endures no error; the Light,

because it enlightens us in the darkness of worldly ignorance. This

doctrine, I say, which above all other reasons makes us certain of it;

for it has been given to us by Him who sees and measures our

immortality, which we cannot perfectly see whilst our immortal is

mingled with the mortal. But we see it by faith perfectly; and by

reason we see it with the cloud of obscurity which grows from the

mixture of the mortal with the immortal. This ought to be the most

powerful argument that both are in us: and I thus believe, thus

affirm; and I am equally certain, after this life, to pass to that

other and better life--there where that glorious Lady lives, with whom

my soul was enamoured when it was struggling, as will be set forth in

the next chapter.

CHAPTER X.

Returning to the proposition, I say that in that verse which begins "A

foe so strong I find him that he destroys," I intend to make manifest

that which was discoursing in my Soul, the ancient thought against the

new; and first briefly I show the cause of its lamentation, when I

say: "This opposite now breaks the humble dream Of the crowned angel

in the glory-beam." This one is that especial thought of which it is

said above that it was wont to be the life of the sorrowing heart.

Then when I say, "Still, therefore, my Soul weeps," it is evident that

my Soul is still on its side, and speaks with sadness; and I say that

it speaks words of lamentation, as if it might wonder at the sudden

transformation, saying: "'The tender star,' It says, 'that once was my

consoler, flies.'" It can well say consoler, for in the great loss

which I sustained in the death of Beatrice this thought, which

ascended into Heaven, had given to my Soul much consolation.

Then afterwards I say, that all my thought, my Soul, of which I say,

"That troubled one," turns in excuse of itself, and speaks against the

eyes; and this is made evident there: "That troubled one asked, 'When

into thine eyes Looked she?'" And I say that she speaks of them and

against them three things: the first is, she blasphemes the hour when

this woman saw them. And here you must know, that although many things

in one hour can come into the eyes, truly that which comes by a

straight line into the point of the pupil, that truly one sees, and

that only is sealed in the imaginative part. And this is, because the

nerve by which the visible spirit runs is directed to that part, and

thereupon truly one eye cannot look on the eye of another so that it

is not seen by it; for as that which looks receives the form of the

pupil by a right line, so by that same line its form passes into that

eye which gazes. And many times in the direction of that line a shaft

flies from the bow of Love, with whom each weapon is light. Therefore,

when I ask, "When first into mine eyes looked she?" it is as much as

to ask, "When did her eyes and mine look into each other?"

The second point is in that which reproves their disobedience, when it

says, "Of her, why doubted they my words?" Then it proceeds to the

third thing and says that it is not right to reprove them for

precaution, but for their disobedience; for it says that, sometimes,

when speaking of this woman, it might be said, "Her eyes bear death to

such as I," if she could have opened the way of approach. And indeed

one ought to believe that my Soul knew of its own inclination ready to

receive the operation of this power, and therefore dreaded it; for the

act of the agent takes full effect in the patient who has the

inclination to receive it, as the Philosopher says in the second book

on the Soul. And, therefore, if wax could have the spirit of fear, it

would fear most to come into the rays of the Sun, which would not turn

it into stone, since its disposition is to yield to that strong

operation.

Lastly, the Soul reveals in its speech that their presumption had been

dangerous when it says, "Yet vainly warned, I gazed on her and die."

And thus it closes its speech, to which the new thought replies, as

will be declared in the following chapter.

CHAPTER XI.

The meaning of that part in which the Soul speaks, that is, the old

thought which is undone, has been shown. Now, in due order, the

meaning must be shown of the part in which the new antagonistic

thought speaks; and this part is contained entirely in the verse or

stanza which begins, "Thou art not dead," which part, in order to

understand it well, I will divide into two; that in the first part,

which begins "Thou art not dead," it then says, continuing its last

words, "It is not true that thou art dead; but the cause wherefore

thou to thyself seemest to be dead is a deadly dismay into which thou

art vilely fallen because of this woman who has appeared to thee." And

here it is to be observed that, as Boethius says in his Consolation,

each sudden change of things does not happen without some flurry of

mind. And this is expressed in the reproof of that thought which is

called "the spirit voice of tenderness," when it gave me to understand

that my consent was inclining towards it; and thus, one can easily

comprehend this, and recognize its victory, when it already says,

"Dear Soul of ours," therein making itself familiar. Then, as is

stated, it commands where it ought to rebuke that Soul, in order to

induce it to come to her; and therefore it says to her: "See, she is

lowly, Pitiful, courteous, though so wise and holy."

These are two things which are a fit remedy for the fear with which

the Soul appeared impassioned; for, firmly united, they cause the

individual to hope well, and especially Pity, which causes all other

goodness to shine forth by its light. Wherefore Virgil, speaking of

Æneas, in his greater praise calls him compassionate, pitiful; and

that is not pity such as the common people understand it, which is to

lament over the misfortunes of others; nay, this is an especial effect

which is called Mercy, Pity, Compassion; and it is a passion. But

compassion is not a passion; rather a noble disposition of mind,

prepared to receive Love, Mercy, and other charitable passions. Then

it says: "See also how courteous, though so wise and holy."

Here it says three things which, according as they can be acquired by

us, make the person especially pleasing. It says Wise. Now, what is

more beautiful in a woman than knowledge? It says Courteous. Nothing

in a woman can be more excellent than courtesy. And neither are the

wretched common people deceived even in this word, for they believe

that courtesy is no other than liberality; for liberality is an

especial, and not a general courtesy. Courtesy is all one with

honesty, modesty, decency; and because the virtues and good manners

were the custom in Courts anciently, as now the opposite is the

custom, this word was taken from the Courts; which word, if it should

now be taken from the Courts, especially of Italy, would and could

express no other than baseness. It says Holy. The greatness which is

here meant is especially well accompanied with the two afore-mentioned

virtues; because it is that light which reveals the good and the evil

of the person clearly. And how much knowledge and how much virtuous

custom does there not seem to be wanting by this light! How much

madness and how much vice are seen to be by this light! Better would

it be for the wretched madmen high in station, stupid and vicious, to

be of low estate, that neither in the world nor after this life they

should be so infamous. Truly for such Solomon says in Ecclesiastes:

"There is a sore evil that I have seen under the Sun; namely, riches

kept for the owners thereof to their hurt."

Then subsequently it lays a command on it, that is, on my Soul, that

it should now call this one its Lady: "Think thou to call her Mistress

evermore," promising my Soul that it will be quite content with her

when it shall have clear perception of all her wonderful

accomplishments; and then this one says: "Save thou delude thyself,

then shall there shine High miracles before thee;" neither does it

speak otherwise even to the end of that stanza. And here ends the

Literal meaning of all that which I say in this Song, speaking to

these Celestial Intelligences.

CHAPTER XII.

Finally, according to that which the letter of this Commentary said

above, when I divided the principal parts of this Song, I turn back

with the face of my discourse to the same Song, and I speak to that.

And in order that this part may be understood more fully, I say that

generally in each Song there is what is called a Tornata, because the

Reciters, who originally were accustomed to compose it, so contrived

that when the song was sung, with a certain part of the song they

could return to it. But I have rarely done it with that intention;

and, in order that others may perceive, this I have seldom placed it

with the sequence of the Song, so long as it is in the rhythm which is

necessary to the measure. But I have used it when it was requisite to

express something independent of the meaning of the Song, and which

was needful for its embellishment, as it will be possible to perceive

in this and in the other Songs.

And, therefore, I say at present, that the goodness and the beauty of

each discourse are parted and divided; for the goodness is in the

meaning, and the beauty in the ornament of the words. And the one and

the other are with delight, although the goodness is especially

delightful. Wherefore, since the goodness of this Song might be

difficult to perceive, because of the various persons who are led to

speak in it, where so many distinctions are required; and the beauty

would be easy to see, it seemed to me, of the nature of the Song that

by some men more attention might be paid to the beauty of the words

than to the goodness of matter. And this is what I say in that part.

But, because it often happens that to admonish seems presumptuous in

certain conditions, it is usual for the Rhetorician to speak

indirectly to others, directing his words, not to him for whom he

speaks, but towards another. And truly this method is maintained here;

for to the Song the words go, and to the men the meaning of them. I

say then: "My Song, I do believe there will be few Who toil to

understand thy reasoning." And I state the cause, which is double.

First, because thou speakest with fatigue--with fatigue, I say, for

the reason which is stated; and then because thou speakest with

difficulty--with difficulty, I say, as to the novelty of the meaning.

Now afterwards I admonish it, and say:

But if thou pass perchance by those who bring

No skill to give thee the attention due,

Then pray I, dear last-born, let them rejoice

At least to find a music in my voice.

For in this I desire to say no other according to what is said above,

except "Oh, men, you who cannot see the meaning of this Song, do not

therefore refuse it; but pay attention to its beauty, which is great,

both for construction, which belongs to the Grammarians; and for the

order of the discourse, which belongs to the Rhetoricians; as well as

for the rhythm of its parts, which belongs to the Musicians." For

which things he who looks well can see that there may be beauty in it.

And this is the entire Literal meaning of the first Song which is

prepared for the first dish in my Banquet.

CHAPTER XIII.

Since the Literal meaning has been sufficiently explained, we must now

proceed to the Allegorical and true exposition. And, therefore,

beginning again from the first head, I say that when I had lost the

chief delight of my Soul in former time, I was left so stung with

sadness that no consolation whatever availed me. Nevertheless, after

some time, my mind, reasoning with itself to heal itself, took heed,

since neither my own nor that of another availed to comfort it, to

turn to the method which a certain disconsolate one had adopted when

he looked for Consolation. And I set myself to read that book of

Boethius, not known to many, in which, when a captive exile, he had

consoled himself. And, again, hearing that Tullius had written another

book, in which, treating of Friendship, he had spoken words for the

consolation of Lælius, a most excellent man, on the death of his

friend Scipio, I set myself to read it. And although at first it was

difficult to me to enter into their meaning, yet, finally, I entered

into it so much as the knowledge of grammar that I possessed, together

with some slight power of intellect, enabled me to do: by which power

of intellect I formerly beheld many things almost like a person in a

dream, as may be seen in the Vita Nuova. And as it is wont to be that

a man goes seeking for silver, and beyond his purpose he finds gold,

whose hidden cause appears not perhaps without the Divine Will; I, who

sought to console myself, found not only a remedy for my tears, but

words of authors and of sciences and of books; reflecting on which I

judged well that Philosophy, who was the Lady of these authors, of

these sciences, and of these books, might be a supreme thing. And I

imagined her in the form of a gentle Lady; and I could imagine her in

no other attitude than a compassionate one, because if willingly the

sense of Truth beheld her, hardly could it turn away from her. And

with this imagination I began to go where she is demonstrated

truthfully, that is, to the Schools of the Religious, and to the

disputations of the Philosophers; so that in a short time, perhaps of

thirty months, I began to feel her sweetness so much that my love for

her chased away and destroyed all other thought. Wherefore I, feeling

myself to rise from the thought of the first Love to the virtue of

this new one, as if wondering at myself, opened my mouth in the speech

of the proposed Song, showing my condition under the figure of other

things: for of the Lady with whom I was enamoured, no rhyme of any

Vernacular was worthy to speak openly, neither were the hearers so

well prepared that they could have easily understood the words without

figure: neither would faith have been given by them to the true

meaning, as to the figurative; since if the truth of the whole was

believed, that I was inclined to that love, it would not be believed

of this. I then begin to speak: "Ye who, intent of thought, the third

Heaven move."

And because, as has been said, this Lady was the daughter of God, the

Queen of all, the most noble and most beautiful Philosophy, it remains

to be seen who these Movers were, and what this third Heaven. And

firstly of the third Heaven, according to the order which has been

gone through. And here it is not needful to proceed to division, and

to explanation of the letter, for, having turned the fictitious speech

away from that which it utters to that which it means, by the

exposition just gone through, this meaning is sufficiently made

evident.

CHAPTER XIV.

In order to see what is meant by the "third Heaven," one has in the

first place to perceive what I desire to express by this word Heaven

alone: and then one will see how and why this third Heaven was needful

to us. I say that by Heaven I mean Science, and by the Heavens "the

Sciences," from three resemblances which the Heavens have with the

Sciences, especially by the order and number in which they must

appear; as will be seen by discussing that word Third. The first

similitude is the revolution of the one and the other round one fixed

centre. For each movable Heaven revolves round its centre, which, on

account of its movement, moves not; and thus each Science moves round

its subject, which itself moves not; for no Science demonstrates its

own foundation, but presupposes that. The second similitude is the

illumination of the one and the other. For each Heaven illuminates

visible things; and thus each Science illuminates the things

intelligible. And the third similitude is the inducing of perfection

in the things so inclined. Of which induction, as to the first

perfection, that is, of the substantial generation, all the

philosophers agree that the Heavens are the cause, although they

attribute this in different ways: some from the Movers, as Plato,

Avicenna, and Algazel; some from the stars themselves, especially the

human souls, as Socrates, and also Plato and Dionysius the

Academician; and some from celestial virtue which is in the natural

heat of the seed, as Aristotle and the other Peripatetics. Thus the

Sciences are the cause in us of the induction of the second

perfection; by the use of which we can speculate concerning the Truth,

which is our ultimate perfection, as the Philosopher says in the sixth

book of the Ethics, when he says that Truth is the good of the

intellect. Because of these and many other resemblances, it is

possible to call Science, Heaven.

Now it remains to see why it is called the third Heaven. Here it is

requisite to reflect somewhat with regard to a comparison which exists

between the order of the Heavens and that of the Sciences Wherefore,

as has been previously described, the Seven Heavens next to us are

those of the Planets; then there are two Heavens above these, the

Mobile, and one above all, Quiet. To the Seven first correspond the

Seven Sciences of the _Trivium_ and of the _Quadrivium_,

namely, Grammar, Logic, Rhetoric, Arithmetic, Music, Geometry, and

Astrology. To the eighth Sphere, i.e., to the starry, correspond

Natural Science, which is termed Physics, and the first Science, which

is termed Metaphysics. To the ninth Sphere corresponds Moral Science;

and to the Quiet Heaven corresponds Divine Science, which is

designated Theology.

And the reason why this is, remains briefly to be seen. I say that the

Heaven of the Moon is likened unto Grammar because it is possible to

find a comparison to it. For if you look at the Moon well, two things

are seen to be proper to it which are not seen in the other stars: the

one is the shadow which is in it, which is no other than the rarity of

its body, in which the rays of the Sun can find no end wherefrom to

strike back again as in the other parts; the other is the variation of

its brightness, which now shines on one side, and now on the other,

according as the Sun sees it. And these two properties Grammar has:

for, because of its infinity, the rays of reason can find no end in it

in parts, especially of the words; and it shines now on this side, now

on that, inasmuch as certain words, certain declensions, certain

constructions, are in use which were not formerly, and many formerly

were which again will be; as Horace says in the beginning of his book

on the art of Poetry, when he says: "Many words will spring up again

which have now fallen out of use."

And the Heaven of Mercury may be compared to Logic because of two

properties: that Mercury is the smallest star in Heaven, that the

amount of its diameter is no more than two hundred and thirty-two

miles, according as Alfergano puts it, who says that it is one

twenty-eighth part of the diameter of the Earth, which is six thousand

five hundred miles; the other property is, that it is more concealed

by the rays of the Sun than any other star. And these two properties

are in Logic: for Logic is less in substance than any other Science,

for it is perfectly compiled and terminated in so much text as is

found in the old Art and the new; and it is more concealed than any

other Science, inasmuch as it proceeds with more sophistical and

probable arguments than any other.

And the Heaven of Venus may be compared to Rhetoric because of two

properties: the one is the brightness of its aspect, which is most

sweet to behold, far more than any other star; the other is its

appearance, now in the morning, now in the evening. And these two

properties are in Rhetoric: for Rhetoric is the sweetest of all

Sciences, since it principally aims at sweetness. It appears in the

morning, when the Rhetorician speaks before the face of the hearer; it

appears in the evening, that is, afterwards, when it speaks by Letters

in distant parts.

And the Heaven of the Sun may be compared to Arithmetic because of two

properties: the one is, that with his light all the other stars are

informed; the other is that the eye cannot gaze at it. And these two

properties are in Arithmetic, which with its light illuminates all its

Sciences: for their subjects are all considered under some Number, and

with Number one always proceeds in the consideration of these; as in

Natural Science the movable body is the subject, which movable body

has in itself three reasons of continuity, and this has in itself

reason of infinite number. And of Natural Science its first and

chiefest consideration is to consider the principles of natural

objects, which are three, that is, matter, privation, and form; in

which this Number is seen, and not only in all together, but again in

each one, as he who considers subtly may perceive. Wherefore,

Pythagoras, according to what Aristotle says in the first book of the

Physics, established as the principles of natural things, the equal

and the unequal; considering all things to be Number. The other

property of the Sun is again seen in Number, of which Number is the

Science of Arithmetic, that the eye of the intellect cannot gaze at

it. For Number, inasmuch as it is considered in itself, is infinite;

and this we cannot, understand.

And the Heaven of Mars may be compared to Music because of two

properties. One is its most beautiful relative position; for, when

enumerating the movable Heavens, from which one soever you may begin,

either from the lowest or from the highest, this Heaven of Mars is the

fifth; it is the central one of all, that is, of the first, of the

second, of the third, and of the fourth. The other is, that this Mars

dries up and burns things, because his heat is like to that of fire;

and this is why it appears flaming in colour, sometimes more and

sometimes less, according to the density and rarity of the vapours

which follow it, which of themselves are often kindled, as is

determined in the first book on Meteors. And, therefore, Albumassar

says that the kindling of these vapours signifies the death of Kings

and the change of Kingdoms; for they are the effects of the dominion

of Mars. And, therefore, Seneca says that, on the death of Augustus,

he beheld on high a ball of fire. And in Florence, at the beginning of

its destruction, there was seen in the air, in the form of a cross, a

great quantity of these vapours following the planet Mars. And these

two properties are in Music, which is all relative, as is seen in

harmonized words and in songs, from which the sweeter harmony results

in proportion as the relation is more beautiful, which in this Science

is especially beautiful, because there is in it a special harmony.

Again, Music attracts to itself human spirits, which are as it were

chiefly vapours from the heart, so that they almost cease from all

labour; so is the whole soul when it hears it, and the power of all

those spirits flies as it were to the spirit of sense, which receives

the sound.

And the Heaven of Jupiter can be compared to Geometry because of two

properties. The one is, that it moves between two Heavens, repugnant

to its good tempering, namely, that of Mars and that of Saturn. Hence

Ptolemy says, in the book alluded to, that Jupiter is a star of a

temperate complexion, midway between the cold of Saturn and the heat

of Mars. The other is, that amongst all the stars it appears white, as

if silvered. And these things are in the Science of Geometry. Geometry

moves between two things antagonistic to it; as between the point and

the circle, and I term circle freely anything that is round, either a

body or superfices; for, as Euclid says, the point is the beginning of

Geometry, and, according to what he says, the circle is the most

perfect figure in it, which must therefore have reason for its end; so

that between the point and the circle, as between the beginning and

the end, Geometry moves. And these two are antagonistic to its

certainty; for the point by its indivisibility is immeasurable, and

the circle, on account of its arc, it is impossible to square

perfectly, and therefore it is impossible to measure precisely. And

again, Geometry is most white, inasmuch as it is without spot of

error, and it is most certain in itself, and by its handmaid, called

Perspective.

And the Heaven of Saturn has two properties because of which it can be

compared to Astrology. One is the slowness of its movement through the

twelve signs; for twenty-nine years and more, according to the

writings of the Astrologers, is the time that it requires in its

orbit. The other is, that above all the other planets it is highest.

And these two properties are in Astrology, for in completing its

circle, as in the acquirement of this Science, the greatest space of

time is revolved, because its demonstrations are more than any other

of the aforementioned Sciences, and long experience is requisite to

those who would acquire good judgment in it. And again, it is the

highest of all the others, because, as Aristotle says in the

commencement of his book on the Soul, the Science is high, because of

its nobility, and because of the nobleness of its subject and its

certainty. And this Science more than any other of those mentioned

above is noble and high, for noble and high is its subject, which is

the movement of the Heavens; and high and noble, because of its

certainty, which is without any defect, even as that which springs

from the most perfect and most regular principle. And if any one

believe that there is defect in it, it is not on the part of the

Science, but, as Ptolemy says, it is through our negligence, and to

that it must be imputed.

CHAPTER XV.

After the comparisons which I have made of the seven first Heavens, we

must now proceed to the others, which are three, as has been often

stated.

I say that the Starry Heaven may be compared to Physics because of

three properties, and to Metaphysics because of three others. For it

shows us of itself two visible things, such as the multitude of stars

and such as the Galaxy, that white circle which the common people call

the Path of St. James. It shows to us also one of the poles, and keeps

the other hidden from us. And it shows to us one movement alone from

East to West; and another, which it makes from West to East, it keeps

almost, as it were, hidden from us. Therefore, in due order are to be

seen, first the comparison with the Physical and then that with the

Metaphysical.

I say that the Starry Heaven shows us many stars; for, according to

what the wise men of Egypt have seen, even to the last star which

appeared to them in the Meridian, they place there twenty-two thousand

bodies of stars, of which I speak. And in this it has the greatest

similitude with Physics, if these three numbers, namely, Two, and

Twenty, and Thousand, are regarded well and subtly. For by the two is

meant the local movement, which is of necessity from one point to

another; and by the twenty is signified the movement of the

alteration, for, since from the ten upwards one advances not except by

altering this ten with the other nine and with itself; and the most

beautiful alteration which it receives is its own with itself, and the

first which it receives is the twenty; reasonably by this number the

said movement is signified. And by the thousand is signified the

movement of increase, which in name, that is, this thousand, is the

greater number, and to increase still more is not possible except by

multiplying this. And these three movements alone are observed in

Physics, as it is demonstrated in the fifth chapter of his first book.

And because of the Milky Way, this Heaven has a great similitude with

Metaphysics. Wherefore, it is to be known that concerning this Galaxy

the Philosophers have had different opinions. For the followers of

Pythagoras said that the Sun at some time or other went astray from

his path, and, passing through other parts not suitable to his fervent

heat, he burnt the place through which he passed, and there remained

that appearance of the conflagration. And I believe that they were

moved by the fable of Phaeton, which Ovid relates in the beginning of

the second part of his Metamorphoses. Others said, such as Anaxagoras

and Democritus, that it was the light of the Sun reflected into that

part. And these opinions, with demonstrative reasons, they proved over

and over again. What Aristotle may have said of this is not so easy to

learn, because his opinion is not found to be the same in one

translation as in the other; and I believe that it might be due to the

error of the translators, for in the new one he seems to say that the

Galaxy is a collection of vapours under the stars of that part which

always attract them; and this does not seem to be the true reason. In

the old translation he says that the Galaxy is no other than a

multitude of fixed stars in that part, so small that we cannot

distinguish them from here below, but that they cause the whiteness

which we call the Milky Way. And it may be that the Heaven in that

part is more dense, and therefore retains and represents that light;

and this opinion Avicenna and Ptolemy seem to share with Aristotle.

Therefore, since the Galaxy is an effect of those stars which we

cannot see, if we understand those things by their effect alone, and

Metaphysics treats of the first substances, which we cannot similarly

understand except by their effects, it is evident that the Starry

Heaven has a great similitude to Metaphysics.

Again, by the pole which we see is signified the things known to our

senses, concerning which, taking them universally, the Science of

Physics treats; and by the pole which we do not see is signified the

things which are without matter, which are not sensible, concerning

which Metaphysics treats; and therefore the said Heaven has a great

similitude with the one Science and with the other.

Again, by the two movements it signifies these two Sciences: for by

the movement in which every day revolves, and makes a new revolution

from point to point, it signifies things natural and corruptible which

daily complete their path, and their material is changed from form to

form; and of this the Science of Physics treats. And by the almost

insensible movement which it makes from West to East by one degree in

a hundred years, it signifies things incorruptible, which received

from God the beginning of their creation, and will have no end; but of

these Metaphysics treats. Therefore I say that this movement signifies

those things, for it began this revolution which will have no end; the

end of the revolution being to return to one self-same point, to which

this Heaven will not return by this movement, which has revolved a

little more than the sixth part from the commencement of the world;

and we are now in the last age of the world, and verily we wait the

consummation of the celestial movement. Thus it is evident that the

Starry Heaven, on account of many properties, may be compared to the

Science of Physics and Metaphysics.

The Crystalline Heaven, which, as the Primum Mobile, has been

previously counted, has a sufficiently evident comparison to Moral

Philosophy; for Moral Philosophy, according to what Tommaso says upon

the second book of the Ethics, teaches us method in the other

Sciences.

For as the Philosopher says in the fifth book of the Ethics, legal

Justice requires the Sciences to be learnt, and commands, in order

that they may not be abandoned, that they be learnt and taught: thus,

the said Heaven rules with its movement the daily revolution of all

the others; from which revolution every day all those receive and send

below the virtues of their several parts. For, if the revolution of

this Heaven could not rule over that, but little of their power would

descend below, and little of their aspect. Wherefore we hold that, if

it could be possible for this ninth Heaven not to move, the third part

of the Heaven would not again be seen in any part from the Earth:

Saturn would be for fourteen years and a half concealed from any place

on the Earth, Jupiter would be hidden for six years, and Mars for

almost a whole year, and the Sun for one hundred and eighty-two days

and fourteen hours (I say days, meaning so much time as so many days

measure); and Venus and Mercury, almost like the Sun, would be hidden

and would reappear, and the Moon for the space of fourteen days and a

half would be hidden from all people. Verily, here below there would

be neither generation, nor the life of animals, nor of plants; there

would be no night, nor day, nor week, nor month, nor year; but the

whole Universe would be disordered, and the movement of the stars

would be in vain. Not otherwise, should Moral Philosophy cease to be,

would the other Sciences be hidden for some time, and there would be

no generation nor life of happiness, and all books would be in vain,

and all discoveries of old. Therefore it is sufficiently evident that

there is a comparison between this Heaven and Moral Philosophy.

Again, the Empyrean Heaven, because of its Peace, bears a similitude

to the Divine Science, which is full of all Peace; which endures no

conflict of opinion or of sophistical arguments, on account of the

most excellent certainty of its subject, which is God. And of this He

Himself speaks to His disciples: "My peace I give to you: My peace I

leave unto you," giving and leaving to them His doctrine, which is

this Science whereof I speak.

Solomon says of this Science: "Sixty are the queens, and eighty the

friendly concubines; and youthful virgins without number; but one is

my dove and my perfect one." All the Sciences he terms queens, and

friends, and virgins; and he calls this one dove, because it is

without blemish of strife; and he calls this one perfect, because it

causes us to see perfectly the Truth in which our Soul finds Peace.

And therefore the comparison of the Heavens to the Sciences having

been thus reasoned out, it is easy to see that by the Third Heaven I

mean Rhetoric, which has been likened unto the Third Heaven, as

appears above.

CHAPTER XVI.

By the similitudes spoken of it is possible to see who these Movers

are to whom I speak; what are the Movers of that Heaven; even as

Boethius and Tullius, who by the sweetness of their speech sent me, as

has before been stated, to the Love, which is the study of that most

gentle Lady, Philosophy, by the rays of their star, which is the

written word of that fair one. Therefore in each Science the written

word is a star full of light, which that Science reveals And, this

being made manifest, it is easy to see the true meaning of the first

verse of the purposed Poem by means of the exposition, Figurative and

Literal. And by means of this self-same exposition one can

sufficiently understand the second verse, even to that part where it

says, This Spirit made me look on a fair Lady: where it should be

known that this Lady is Philosophy; which truly is a Lady full of

sweetness, adorned with modesty, wonderful for wisdom, the glory of

freedom, as in the Third Treatise, where her Nobility will be

described, it is made manifest. And then where it says: "Who seeks

where his Salvation lies, Must gaze intently in this Lady's eyes;" the

eyes of this Lady are her demonstrations, which look straight into the

eyes of the intellect, enamour the Soul, and set it free from the

trammels of circumstance. Oh, most sweet and ineffable forms, swift

stealers of the human mind, which appear in these demonstrations, that

is, in the eyes of Philosophy, when she discourses to her faithful

friends! Verily in you is Salvation, whereby he is made blessed who

looks at you, and is saved from the death of Ignorance and Vice. Where

it says, "Nor dread the sighs of anguish, joys debarred," the wish is

to signify, if he fear not the labour of study and the strife of

conflicting opinions, which flow forth ever multiplying from the

living Spring in the eyes of this Lady, and then her light still

continuing, they fall away, almost like little morning clouds before

the Sun. And now the intellect, become her friend, remains free and

full of certain Truth, even as the atmosphere is rendered pure and

bright by the shining of the midday Sun.

The third passage again is explained by the Literal exposition as far

as to where it says, "Still therefore the Soul weeps." Here it is

desirable to attend to a certain moral sense which may be observed in

these words: that a man ought not for the sake of the greater friend

to forget the service received from the lesser; but if one must follow

the one and leave the other, the greater is to be followed, with

honest lamentation for desertion of the other, whereby he gives

occasion to the one whom he follows to bestow more love on him. Then

there where it says, "Of my eyes," has no other meaning except that

bitter was the hour when the first demonstration of this Lady entered

into the eyes of my intellect, which was the cause of this most close

attachment. And there where it says, "My peers," it means the Souls

set free from miserable and vile pleasures, and from vulgar habits,

endowed with understanding and memory. And then it says, "Her eyes

bear death," and then it says, "I gazed on her and die," which appears

contrary to that which is said above of Salvation by this Lady. And

therefore it is to be known that one Spirit speaks here on one side

and the other speaks there on the other; which two dispute

contrariwise, according to that which is made evident above. Wherefore

it is no wonder if here the one Spirit says Yes, and there the other

Spirit says No. Then in the stanza where it says, "A sweet voice of

tenderness," a thought is meant which was born of my deep

contemplation; wherefore it is to be known that by Love, in this

Allegory, is always meant that deep contemplation which is the earnest

application of the enamoured mind to that object wherewith it is

enamoured. Then when it says, "There shall shine High miracles before

thee," it announces that through her the adornments of the miracles

will be seen; and it speaks truly, that the adornment of the miracles

is to see the cause of the same, which she demonstrates; as in the

beginning of the book on Metaphysics the Philosopher seems to feel,

saying that, through the contemplation of these adornments, men began

to be enamoured with this Lady. And concerning this word, i.e.,

miracle, in the following treatise I shall speak more fully. What then

follows of this Song is sufficiently explained by the other

exposition.

And thus at the end of this Second Treatise, I say and affirm that the

Lady with whom I became enamoured after the first Love was the most

beautiful and most excellent daughter of the Ruler of the Universe, to

which daughter Pythagoras gave the name of Philosophy. And here ends

the Second Treatise, which is brought in for the first dish at my

Banquet.

* * * * *

The Third Treatise.

Love, reasoning of my Lady in my mind

With constant pleasure, oft of her will say

Things over which the intellect may stray;

His words make music of so sweet a kind

That the Soul hears and feels, and cries, Ah, me,

That I want power to tell what thus I see!

If I would tell of her what thus I hear,

First, all that Reason cannot make its own

I needs must leave; and of what may be known

Leave part, for want of words to make it clear.

If my Song fail, blame wit and words, whose force

Fails to tell all I hear in Love's discourse.

The Sun sees not in travel round the earth,

Till it reach her abode, so fair a thing

As she of whom Love causes me to sing.

All minds of Heaven wonder at her worth;

Mortals, enamoured, find her in their thought

When Love his peace into their minds has brought.

Her Maker saw that she was good, and poured,

Beyond our Nature, fulness of His Power

On her pure soul, whence shone this holy dower

Through all her frame, with beauty so adored

That from the eyes she touches heralds fly

Heartward with longings, heavenward with a sigh.

On her fair frame Virtue Divine descends

As on the angel that beholds His face.

Fair one who doubt, go with her, mark the grace

In all her acts. Downward from Heaven bends

An angel when the speaks, who can attest

A power in her by none of us possessed.

The graceful acts that she shows forth to all

Rival in calls to love that love must hear;

Fair in all like her, fairest she'll appear

Who is most like her. We, content to call

Her face a Miracle, have Faith made sure:

For that, He made her ever to endure.

Her aspect shows delights of Paradise,

Seen in her eyes and in her smiling face;

Love brought them there as to his dwelling-place.

They dazzle reason, as the Sun the eyes;

And since I cannot fix on them my gaze

Words must suffice that little speak their praise.

Rain from her beauty little flames of fire,

Made living with a spirit to create

Good thoughts, and crush the vices that innate

Make others vile. Fair one, who may desire

Escape from blame as one not calm or meek,

From her, who is God's thought, thy teaching seek.

My Song, it seems you speak this to oppose

The saying of a sister Song of mine:

This lowly Lady whom you call divine,

Your sister called disdainful and morose.

Though Heaven, you know, is ever bright and pure,

Eyes may have cause to find a star obscure.

So when your sister called this Lady proud

She judged not truly, by what seemed; but fear

Possessed her soul; and still, when I come near

Her glance, there's dread. Be such excuse allowed,

My Song, and when thou canst, approach her, say;

My Lady, take all homage I can pay.

CHAPTER I.

In the preceding treatise is described how my second Love took its

rise from the compassionate countenance of a Lady; which Love, finding

my Soul inclined to its ardour, after the manner of fire, was kindled

from a slight spark into a great flame; so that not only during my

waking hours, but during sleep, its light threw many a vision into my

mind. And how great the desire which Love excited to behold this Lady,

it would be impossible either to tell or to make understood. And not

only of her was I thus desirous, but of all those persons who had any

nearness to her, either as acquaintances or as relations. Oh! how many

were the nights, when the eyes of other persons were closed in sleep,

that mine, wide open, gazed fixedly upon the tabernacle of my Love.

And as the rapidly increasing fire must of necessity be seen, it being

impossible for fire to remain hidden, the desire seized me to speak of

the Love that I could no longer restrain within me. And although I

could receive but little help from my own counsel, yet, inasmuch as,

either from the will of Love or from my own promptness, I drew nigh to

it many times, I deliberated, and I saw that, in speaking of Love,

there could be no more beautiful nor more profitable speech than that

which commends the beloved person. And in this deliberation three

reasons assisted me. One of them was self-love, which is the source of

all the rest, as every one sees. For there is no more lawful nor more

courteous way of doing honour to one's self than by doing honour to

one's friend; and, since friendship cannot exist between the unlike,

wherever one sees friendship, likeness is understood; and wherever

likeness is understood, thither runs public praise or blame. And from

this reason two great lessons may be learnt: the one is, never to wish

that any vicious man should seem your friend, for in that case a bad

opinion is formed of him who has made the evil man his friend; the

other is, that no one ought to blame his friend publicly, because, if

you consider well the aforesaid reason, he but points to himself with

his finger in his eye.

The second reason was the desire for the duration of this friendship;

wherefore it is to be known, as the Philosopher says in the ninth book

of the Ethics, in the friendship of persons of unequal position it is

requisite, for the preservation of that friendship, for a certain

proportion to exist between them, which may reduce the dissimilarity

to a similarity, as between the master and the servant. For, although

the servant cannot render the same benefit to the master that is

conferred on him, yet he ought to render the best that he can, with so

much solicitude and freewill that that which is dissimilar in itself

may become similar through the evidence of good-will, which proves the

friendship, confirms and preserves it. Wherefore I, considering myself

lower than that Lady, and perceiving myself benefited by her,

endeavoured to praise her according to my ability. And, if it be not

similar of itself, my prompt freewill proves at least that if I could

I would do more, and thus it makes its friendship similar to that of

this gentle Lady.

The third reason was an argument of prudence; for, as Boethius says,

"It is not sufficient to look only at that which is before the eyes,

that is, at the Present; and, therefore, Prudence, Foresight, is given

to us, which looks beyond to that which may happen." I say that I

thought that for a long time I might be reproached by many with levity

of mind, on hearing that I had turned from my first Love. Wherefore,

to remove this reproach, there was no better argument than to state

who the Lady was who had thus changed me; that, by her manifest

excellence, they might gain some perception of her virtue; and that,

by the comprehension of her most exalted virtue, they might be able to

see that all stability of mind could be in that mutability: and,

therefore, they should not judge me light and unstable. I then began

to praise this Lady, and if not in the most suitable manner, at least

as well as I could at first; and I began to say: "Love, reasoning of

my Lady in my mind." This Song chiefly has three parts. The first is

the whole of the first two stanzas, in which I speak in a preliminary

manner. The second is the whole of the six following stanzas, in which

is described that which is intended, i.e., the praise of that gentle

Lady; the first of which begins: "The Sun sees not in travel round the

earth." The third part is in the last two stanzas, in which,

addressing myself to the Song, I purify it from all doubtful

interpretation. And these three parts remain to be discussed now in

due order.

CHAPTER II.

Turning, then, to the First Part, which was composed as a Proem or

Preface to the Song or Poem, I say that it is fitly divided into three

parts. In the first place, it alludes to the ineffable condition of

this theme; secondly, it describes my insufficiency to speak of it in

a perfect manner; and this second part begins: "If I would tell of her

what thus I hear." Finally, I excuse myself for my insufficiency, for

which they ought not to lay blame to my charge; and I commence this

part when I say: "If my Song fail."

I begin, then: "Love, reasoning of my Lady in my mind," where in the

first place it is to be seen who this speaker is, and what this place

is in which I say that he is speaking. Love, taking him in his true

sense, and considering him subtly, is no other than the spiritual

union of the Soul with the beloved object; into which union, of its

own nature, the Soul hastens sooner or later, according as it is free

or impeded. And the reason for that natural disposition may be this:

each substantial form proceeds from its First Cause, which is God, as

is written in the book of Causes; and they receive not diversity from

that First Cause, which is the most simple, but from the secondary

causes, and from the material into which it descends. Wherefore, in

the same book it is written, when treating of the infusion of the

Divine Goodness: "The bounties and good gifts make diverse things,

through the concurrence of that which receives them." Wherefore, since

each effect retains somewhat of the nature of its cause, as Alfarabio

says when he affirms that that which has been the first cause of a

round body has in some way an essentially round form, so each form in

some way has the essence of the Divine Nature in itself; not that the

Divine Nature can be divided and communicated to these, but

participated in by these, almost in the same way that the other stars

participate in the nature of the Sun. And the nobler the form, the

more does it retain of that Divine Nature.

Wherefore the human Soul, which is the noblest form of all those which

are generated under Heaven, receives more from the Divine Nature than

any other. And since it is most natural to wish to be in God, for as

in the book quoted above one reads, the first thing is to exist, and

before that there is nothing, the human Soul desires to exist

naturally with all possible desire. And since its existence depends

upon God, and is preserved by Him, it naturally desires and longs to

be united to God, and so add strength to its own being. And since, in

the goodness of Human Nature, Reason gives us proof of the Divine, it

follows that, naturally, the Human Soul is united therewith by the

path of the spirit so much the sooner, and so much the more firmly, in

proportion as those good qualities appear more perfect; which

appearance of perfection is achieved according as the power of the

Soul to produce a good impression is strong and clear, or is

trammelled and obscure. And this union is that which we call Love,

whereby it is possible to know that which is within the Soul, by

looking at those whom it loves in the world without. This Love, which

is the union of my Soul with that gentle Lady in whom so much of the

Divine Light was revealed to me, is that speaker of whom I speak;

since from him continuous thoughts were born, whilst gazing at and

considering the wondrous power of this Lady who was spiritually made

one with my Soul.

The place in which I say that he thus speaks is the Mind. But in

saying that it is the Mind, one does not attach more meaning to this

than before; and therefore it is to be seen what this Mind properly

signifies. I say, then, that the Philosopher, in the second book on

the Soul, when speaking of its powers, says that the Soul principally

has three powers, which are, to Live, to Feel, and to Reason: and he

says also to Move, but it is possible to make this one with feeling,

since every Soul moves that feels, either with all the senses or with

one alone; for the power to move is conjoined with feeling. And

according to that which he says, it is most evident that these powers

are so entwined that the one is a foundation of the other; and that

which is the foundation can of itself be divided; but the other, which

is built upon it, cannot be apart from its foundation. Therefore, the

Vegetative power, whereby one lives, is the foundation upon which one

feels, that is, sees, hears, tastes, smells, and touches; and this

vegetative power of itself can be the Soul, vegetative, as we see in

all the plants. The Sensitive cannot exist without that. We find

nothing that feels, and does not live. And this Sensitive power is the

foundation of the Intellectual, that is, of the Reason; so that, in

animate mortals, the Reasoning power is not found without the

Sensitive. But the Sensitive is found without Reason, as in the

beasts, and in the birds, and in the fishes, and in any brute animal,

as we see. And that Soul which contains all these powers is the most

perfect of all. And the Human Soul possessing the nobility of the

highest power, which is Reason, participates in the Divine Nature,

after the manner of an eternal Intelligence: for the Soul is ennobled

and denuded of matter by that Sovereign Power in proportion as the

Divine Light of Truth shines into it, as into an Angel; and Man is

therefore called by the Philosophers the Divine Animal.

In this most noble part of the Soul are many virtues, as the

Philosopher says, especially in the third chapter of the Soul, where

he says that there is in it a virtue which is called Scientific, and

one which is called Ratiocinative, or rather deliberative; and with

this there are certain virtues, as Aristotle says in that same place,

such as the Inventive and the Judging. And all these most noble

virtues, and the others which are in that excellent power, are

designated by that one word, which we sought to understand, that is,

Mind. Wherefore it is evident that by Mind is meant the highest,

noblest part of a man's Soul.

And it is seen to be so, for only of man and of the Divine substances

is this Mind predicated, as can plainly be seen in Boethius, who first

predicates it of men, where he says to Philosophy: "Thou, and God who

placed thee in the mind of men;" then he predicates it of God, when he

says: "Thou dost produce everything from the Divine Model, Thou most

beautiful One, bearing the beautiful World in Thy mind." Neither was

it ever predicated of brute animals; nay, of many men who appear

defective in the most perfect part, it does not seem that it ought to

be, or that it could be, predicated; and therefore such as these are

termed in the Latin Tongue _amenti_ and _dementi_, that is,

without mind. Hence one can now perceive that it is Mind which is the

perfect and most precious part of the Soul in which is God.

And that is the place where I say that Love discourses to me of my

Lady.

CHAPTER III.

Not without cause do I say that this Love was at work in my mind; but

it is said reasonably, in order to explain what this Love is, by the

place in which it works. Wherefore, it is to be known that each thing,

as is said above, for the reason shown above, has its especial Love,

as the simple bodies have Love, innate, each in its proper place.

Therefore the Earth always descends to the centre, the fire to the

circumference above near the Heaven of the Moon, and always ascends

towards that. The bodies first composed, such as are the minerals,

have love for the place where their generation is ordained, and in

which they increase, and from which they have vigour and power.

Wherefore, we see the loadstone always receive power from the place of

its generation. Each of the plants which are first animated, that is,

first animated with a vegetative soul has most evident love for a

particular place, according as its nature may require; and therefore

we see certain plants almost always grow by the side of the streams,

and certain others upon the mountain tops, and certain others grow by

the sea-shore, or at the foot of hills, which, if they are

transplanted, either die entirely or live a sad life, as it were, like

a being separated from his friend. The brute beasts have a most

evident love, not only for places, but we see also their love towards

each other. Men have their own love for things perfect and excellent;

and since Man, although his Soul is one substance alone, because of

his nobility, partakes of the nature of each of these things, he can

possess all these affections, and he does possess them all. By his

part in the nature of the simple body, as earth, naturally it tends

downwards; therefore, when he moves his body upwards, he becomes more

weary.

Because of the second nature, of the mixed body, it loves the place of

its generation, and even the time; and therefore each one naturally is

of more power in his own place and in his own time than in any other.

Wherefore, one reads in the History of Hercules, and in the greater

Ovid, and in Lucan, and in other Poets, that when fighting with the

Giant who was named Antæus, every time that the Giant was weary, and

laid his body down on the earth at full length, either by the will or

strength of Hercules, new strength and vigour then surged up in him,

drawn wholly from the Earth, in which and from which he was produced;

Hercules, perceiving this, at last seized him, and having compressed

and raised him above the Earth, he held him so tightly, without

allowing him to touch the Earth again, that he conquered Antæus by

excess of strength, and killed him. According to the testimony of the

books, this battle took place in Africa.

And because of the third nature, that is, of the plants, Man has a

love for a certain food, not inasmuch as it affects the senses, but in

so much as it is nutritious; and that particular food does the work of

that most perfect Nature, while certain other food, dissimilar, acts

but imperfectly. And therefore we see that certain food will make men

handsome, and strong-limbed, and very brightly coloured, and certain

other food will do the opposite of this.

And by the fourth nature, of the animals, that is, the sensitive, Man

has the other love, by which he loves according to the sensible

appearance, like the beasts; and this love in Man especially has need

of control, because of its excessive operation in the delights given,

especially through sight and touch.

And because of the fifth and last nature, which is the true Human

Nature, and, to use a better phrase, the Angelic, namely, the

Rational, Man has by it the Love of Truth and Virtue; and from this

Love is born true and perfect friendship from the honest intercourse

of which the Philosopher speaks in the eighth book of the Ethics, when

he treats of Friendship.

Wherefore, since this nature is termed Mind, as is proved above, I

spoke of Love as discoursing in my Mind in order to explain that this

Love was the Friendship which is born of that most noble nature, that

is, of Truth and Virtue, and to exclude each false opinion, by which

my Love might be suspected to spring from pleasure of the Senses.

I then say, "With constant pleasure," to make people understand its

continuance and its fervour. And I say that it often whispers "Things

over which the intellect may stray." And I speak truth, because my

thoughts, when reasoning of her, often sought to draw conclusions of

her, which I could not comprehend, and I was alarmed, so that I seemed

almost like one dazed, even as he who, looking with the eye along a

direct line, sees first the nearest things clearly; then, proceeding,

it sees them less clearly; then, further on, doubtfully; then,

proceeding an immense way, the sight is divided from the object, and

sees nothing. And this is one unspeakable thing of that which I have

taken for a theme; and consequently I relate the other when I say:

His words make music of so sweet a kind

That the Soul hears and feels, and cries, Ah, me,

That I want power to tell what thus I see!

And because I know not how to tell it, I say that my soul laments,

saying, "Ah, me, that I want power." And this is the other unspeakable

thing, that the tongue is not a complete and perfect follower of all

that the intellect sees. And I say, "That the Soul hears and feels;"

hearing, as to the words, and feeling, as to the sweetness of the

sound.

CHAPTER IV.

Now that the two ineffable parts of this matter have been discussed,

we must proceed to discuss words that describe my insufficiency.

I say, then, that my insufficiency arises from a double cause, even as

in a twofold manner the exalted nature of my Lady surpasses all, in

the way which has been told. For I am compelled, by the poverty of my

intellect, to omit much of the truth concerning her which shone into

my mind like rays of light, but which my mind receives like a

transparent body, unable to gather up the ends thereof and reflect

them back. And this I express in that following part: "First, all that

Reason cannot make its own I needs must leave." Then, when I say, "And

of what can be known," I say that not even to that which I do

understand am I sufficient, because my tongue is not so eloquent that

it could tell that which is discoursed in my thoughts concerning her.

It may be seen, therefore, that, with respect to the Truth, it is very

little that I shall say; and this redounds to her great praise, if

well considered, in that which was the main intention. And it is

possible to say that this form of speech came indeed from the workshop

of Rhetoric, which on every side lays its hand upon the main

intention. Then, when it says, "If my Song fail," I excuse myself for

my fault, which ought not, then, to be blamed when others see that my

words are far below the dignity of this Lady. And I say that, if the

defect is in my rhymes, that is, in my words, which are appointed to

discourse of her, for this are to be blamed the weakness of the

intellect and the abruptness of our speech: "blame wit and words,"

which are overpowered by the thought, so that they cannot follow it

entirely, especially there where the thought is born of love, because

there the Soul searches more deeply than elsewhere. It would be quite

possible for any one to say: Thou dost excuse and accuse thyself all

in one breath, which is a reason for blame, not for escape from blame,

inasmuch as the blame, which is mine, is cast on the intellect and on

the speech; for, if it be good, I ought to be praised for it in so

much as it is so; and if it be defective, I ought to be blamed. To

this it is possible to reply, briefly, that I do not accuse myself,

but that I excuse myself in truth. And therefore it is to be known,

according to the opinion of the Philosopher in the third book of the

Ethics, that man is worthy of praise or of blame only in those things

which it is in his power to do or not to do; but in those things over

which he has no power he deserves neither blame nor praise, since

either the praise or blame is to be attributed to some other, although

the things may be parts of the man himself. Therefore, we ought not to

blame the man because his body, from his birth, may be ugly, since it

was not in his power to make it beautiful; but our blame should fall

on the evil disposition of the matter whereof he is made, whose source

was a defect of Nature. And even so we ought not to praise the man for

the beauty of form which he may have from his birth, for he was not

the maker of it; but we ought to praise the artificer, that is, Human

Nature, who shapes her material into so much beauty when she is not

impeded. And therefore the priest said well to the Emperor who laughed

and scoffed at the ugliness of his body: "The Lord, He is God: It is

He that hath made us, and not we ourselves;" and these are the words

of the Prophet in a verse of the Psalms, written neither more nor less

than according to the reply of the Priest.

And therefore let the wicked evil-born ones perceive that, if they put

their chief care in the adornment of their persons, it must be with

all modesty; for to do that is no other than to adorn the work of

another, that is, Nature, and to abandon their own proper work.

Returning, then, to the proposition, I say that our intellect, through

defect of the power through which it sees organic power, that is, the

imagination, is not able to ascend to certain things, because the

imagination cannot help it and has not the wherewithal, such as are

the substances apart from matter, which (if we can have any knowledge

of them) we cannot fully comprehend.

And the man is not to blame for this, because he was not the maker of

this defect; nay, Universal Nature did this, which is God, who wills

that in this life we be without this light. And because He was the

cause, it would be presumptuous to argue concerning it. So that if my

earnest thought transported me into a place where my imagination

failed my intellect, I was not to blame if I could not possibly

understand.

Again, a bound is set to our understanding in each operation thereof;

but not by us, but by Universal Nature; and therefore it is to be

known that the bounds of the understanding are wider in thought than

in speech, and wider in speech than in signs. Hence, if our thought,

not only that which fails in a perfect intellect, but also that which

in a perfect intellect attains its end, is the conqueror of speech, we

are not to blame, because we are not the makers of it. And therefore I

prove that I do truthfully excuse myself when I say: "Blame wit and

words, whose force Fails to tell all that I hear Love discourse;" for,

sufficiently clear ought to appear the good-will, which alone we

should regard in respect to merits that are human.

And thus is now explained the first principal part of this Song which

flows from my hand.

CHAPTER V.

Discourse on the first part of the Song has now made its meaning open

and clear, and it is needful to proceed to the second; for the clearer

perception of which, three divisions are desirable, according as it is

contained in three sections. For in the first part I praise that Lady

entirely and generally, as in the Soul so in the body; in the second

part I descend to especial commendation of the Soul; and in the third,

to especial praise of the body. The first part begins: "The Sun sees

not in travel round the earth;" the second begins: "Her Maker saw that

she was good;" the third begins: "Rain from her beauty little flames

of fire," and these parts or divisions in due order are to be

discussed.

I say then: "The Sun sees not in travel round the earth;" where it is

to be known, in order to have perfect understanding thereof, how the

Earth is circled round by the Sun. In the first place, I say that by

the Earth I do not here mean the whole body of the Universe, but only

that part of the sea and land, following the common speech, which is

thus wont to designate it, whereupon some one exclaims, "This man has

seen all the World," meaning "this part of the sea and land." This

World Pythagoras and his followers asserted to be one of the stars,

and they also said that there was another opposite to it, similar to

it: and they called that one Antictona; and he said that both were in

one sphere which revolved from East to West, and by this revolution

the Sun was circled round us, and now he was seen, and now he was not

seen. And he said that the fire was in the centre of these,

considering the fire to be a more noble body than the water and than

the Earth, and giving the noblest centre to the four simple bodies; he

said that the fire, when it appeared to ascend, according to strict

truth descended to the centre. Then Plato was of another opinion, and

he wrote in a book of his, which he called Timæus, that the Earth with

the sea was indeed the centre of all, but that its whole sphere

revolved round its centre, following the first movement of the

Heavens, but much slower on account of its gross material, and because

of the immense distance from that first moved. These opinions are

confuted in the second chapter, Of Heaven and the World, by that

glorious Philosopher, to whom Nature opened her secrets most freely;

and by him it is therein proved that this World, the Earth, is of

itself stable and fixed to all eternity. And his reasons, which

Aristotle states in order to break those other opinions and to affirm

the truth, it is not my intention here to narrate; therefore, let it

be enough for those to whom I speak, to know, upon his great

authority, that this Earth is fixed, and does not revolve, and that

it, with the sea, is the centre of the Heavens. These Heavens revolve

round this centre continuously, even as we see; in which revolution

there must of necessity be two fixed Poles, and a circle equally

distant from these round which all especially revolves. Of these two

Poles, the one is visible to almost all the discovered Earth, that is,

the Northern Pole; the other is hidden from almost all the discovered

Earth, that is, the Southern Pole. The circle spread from them is that

part of Heaven under which the Sun revolves when it is in Aries and

Libra. Wherefore, it is to be known that if a stone could fall from

this Pole of ours, it would fall there beyond into the sea precisely

upon that surface of the sea, where, if a man could be, he would

always have the Sun above the middle of his head; and I believe that

from Rome to that place, going in a straight line to the North, the

distance may be almost two thousand seven hundred miles, or a little

more or less. Imagining, then, in order to understand better what I

say, that there is in that place a city, and that its name may be

Maria, I say again that if from the other Pole, that is, the Southern,

a stone could fall, that it would fall upon that part of the ocean

which is precisely on this ball opposite to Maria; and I believe that

from Rome to where this second stone would fall, going in a direct

line to the South, the distance may be seven thousand five hundred

miles, a little more or less. And here let us imagine another city,

which may have the name of Lucia; and the distance, from whatever part

one draws the line, is ten thousand two hundred miles between the one

and the other, that is, half the circumference of this ball, so that

the citizens of Maria hold the soles of the feet opposite the soles of

the feet of the citizens of Lucia. Let us imagine also a circle upon

this ball which is in every part equi-distant from Maria as from

Lucia. I believe that this circle, according to what I understand by

the assertions of the Astrologers, and by that of Albertus Magnus in

his book On the Nature of Places and on the Properties of the

Elements, and also by the testimony of Lucan in his ninth book, would

divide this Earth uncovered by the sea in the Meridian, almost through

all the extreme end of the first climate, where there are amongst the

other people the Garamanti, who are almost always naked; to whom came

Cato with the people of Rome when flying from the dominion of Cæsar.

Having marked out these three places upon this ball, one can easily

see how the Sun circles round it.

I say, then, that the Heaven of the Sun revolves from West to East,

not directly against the diurnal movement, that is, of the day and

night, but obliquely against that, so that its mid-circle, which is

equally between its Poles, in which is the body of the Sun, cuts into

two opposite parts the circle of the two first Poles, in the beginning

of Aries and in the beginning of Libra; and it is divided by two arcs

from it, one towards the North and one towards the South; the points

of these two said arcs are equi-distant from the first circle in every

part by twenty-three degrees and one point more, and the one point is

the tropic of Cancer, and the other is the tropic of Capricorn;

therefore it must be that Maria in the sign of Aries can see, when the

Sun sinks below the mid-circle of the first Poles, this Sun to revolve

round the Earth below, or rather the sea, like a millstone, of which

only one half of its body appears, and can see this come rising up

after the manner of the screw of a vine-press, so much so that it

completes ninety-one rotations, or a little more. When these rotations

are completed, its ascension is to Maria almost as much in proportion

as it ascends to us in the half-third, that is, of the equal day and

night; and if a man could stand in Maria, with his face always turned

to the Sun, he would see that Sun pass by on the right. Then by the

same way it seems to descend another ninety-one rotations, or a little

more, so much so that it circles round below the Earth, or rather sea,

not showing the whole of itself; and then it is hidden, and Lucia

begins to see it, which, the same as Maria, then sees it to ascend and

to descend around itself with the same number of rotations. And if a

man could stand in Lucia, with his face always turned towards the Sun,

he would see it pass to the left. Therefore, it is possible to see

that these places have in the year one day of six months' duration,

and one night of the same length of time; and when one has the day the

other has the night.

It must be also that the circle where the Garamanti are, as has been

said above, upon this ball, can see the Sun revolve precisely above

them, not after the fashion of a mill-stone, but of a wheel, which

cannot in any part be seen except the centre, when it goes under

Aries. And then it is seen to depart from its place immediately above

and go towards Maria ninety-one days, or a little more, and by so many

to return to its position; and then, when it has turned back, it goes

before Libra, and even so departs and goes towards Lucia ninety-one

days, or a little more, and in so many returns to its position. And

this place always has the day equal with the night, either on this

side or on that, as the Sun goes, and twice a year it has the summer

of intense heat, and two little winters. It must also be that the two

distances, which are midway from the two imaginary Cities and the

mid-circle, see the Sun variously, according as they are remote from,

and near to, these places.

Now, by what has been said, this can be seen by him who has good

understanding, to which it is well to give a little fatigue. He can

now perceive that, by the Divine Providence, the World is so ordained

that the sphere of the Sun, being revolved and turned round to one

point, this ball whereon we are in every part receives an equal share

of light and darkness. Oh, ineffable Wisdom, Thou which didst thus

ordain! Oh, how poor and feeble is our mind when seeking to comprehend

Thee! And you, O men, for whose benefit and pleasure I write, in what

fearful blindness do you live if you never raise your eyes upwards to

these things, but keep them fixed in the mud of your foolishness.

CHAPTER VI.

In the preceding chapter is shown after what manner the Sun travels

round the Earth; so that now one can proceed to demonstrate the

meaning of the part to which this thought belongs. I say, then, that

in that first part I begin to praise that Lady by comparison with

other things. And I say that the Sun, circling round the Earth, sees

nothing so gentle as that Lady; wherefore it follows that she is,

according to the letter, the most gentle of all things that the sun

shines upon. And it says: "Till the hour;" wherefore it is to be known

that "hour" is understood in two ways by the Astrologers. The one is,

that of the day and of the night they make twenty-four hours--twelve

of the day, twelve of the night, however long or short the day may be.

And these hours are short and long in the day and night according as

the day and night increase and diminish. And these hours the Church

uses when it says, Prima, Tertia, Sexta, and Nona--first, third,

sixth, and ninth; and these are termed hours temporal. The other mode

is, that, making of the day and of the night twenty-four hours, the

day sometimes has fifteen hours and the night nine; and sometimes the

night has sixteen and the day eight, according as the day and night

increase and diminish; and they term these hours equal at the

Equinox, and those that are termed temporal are always the same,

because, the day being equal to the night, it must happen thus.

Then when I say, "All Minds of Heaven wonder at her worth," I praise

her, not having respect to any other thing. And I say that the

Intelligences of Heaven behold her, and that the people here below

think of that gentle Lady when they have more of that peace which

delights them. And here it is to be known that each Mind or Intellect

in Heaven above, according to that which is written in the book Of

Causes, knows that which is above itself and that which is below

itself; therefore it knows God as its Cause; therefore it knows that

which is below itself as its effect.

And since God is the most universal cause of everything, to know Him

is to know all, according to the degree of the Intelligence; wherefore

all the Intelligences know the human form in as far as it is by

intention fixed or determined in the Divine Mind. The moving

Intelligences especially know it; since they are the most especial

causes of it, and of every kind of form; and they know the most

perfect, as far as they can know it, as their rule and pattern.

And if this human form, copied and individualized, is not perfect, it

is not the fault of the said copy or image, but of the matter from

which the individual is formed. Therefore when I say, "All Minds in

Heaven wonder at her worth," I wish to express no other than that she

is thus made, even as the express image of the human form in the

Divine Mind. And each Mind there above beholds her by virtue of that

quality which exists especially in those angelic Minds which build up

and shape, with Heaven, things that exist below. And to confirm this,

I subjoin when I say, "Mortals, enamoured, find her in their thought

When Love his peace into their minds has brought," where it is to be

known that each thing especially desires its perfection, and in that

its every desire finds peace and calm, and for that peace each thing

is desired.

And this is that desire which always makes every pleasure appear

incomplete, for there is no joy or pleasure so great in this life that

it can quench the thirst in our Soul, for always the desire for that

perfection remains in the Mind. And since this Lady is truly that

perfection, I say that people here below receive great delight when

they have most peace; for she abides then in their thoughts. For this

Lady, I say, is perfect in as high a degree as it is possible for

Human Nature to be.

Then when I say, "Her Maker saw that she was good," I prove that not

only this Lady is the most perfect in the human race, but more than

the most perfect, inasmuch as she receives from the Divine Goodness

more than human dues. Wherefore one can reasonably believe that as

each Master loves most his best work far more than the other work, so

God loves the good human being far above the rest. And forasmuch as

His Bounty is of necessity not restricted by any limit, His love has

no regard to the amount due to him who receives, but it overflows in

gifts, and in the blessings of power and grace. Wherefore I say here,

that this God, who gave life or being to this Lady, through love or

charity for her perfection pours into her of His Bounty beyond the

limits of the amount due to our nature.

Then when I say, "On her pure soul," I prove this that has been said

with reasonable testimony, which gives us to know that, as the

Philosopher says in the second chapter, On the Soul, the Soul is the

act of the Body; and if it be its act, it is its Cause; and as it is

written in the book before, quoted, On Causes, each Cause infuses into

its effect some of the goodness which it receives from its own Cause,

which is "God." Wherefore, since in her are seen wonderful things, so

much so on the part of the body that they make each beholder desirous

to see those things, it is evident that her form, which is her Soul,

guides it as its proper Cause and receives miraculously the gracious

goodness of God.

And thus is proved, by that appearance, which exceeds the due

appointment of our nature, which in her is most perfect, as has been

said above, that this Lady is by God endowed with good gifts and made

a noble thing. And this is the whole Literal meaning of the first

section of the second principal part.

CHAPTER VII.

Having commended this Lady generally, both according to the Soul and

according to the Body, I proceed to praise her specially according to

the Soul.

And first I praise her Soul for its goodness, that is great in itself;

then I commend it for a goodness that is great in others, and useful

to the World. And that second part begins when I say, firstly, "On her

fair frame Virtue Divine descends;" where it is to be known that the

Divine Goodness descends into all things, and otherwise they could not

exist; but, although this goodness springs from the First Cause, it is

received diversely, according to the more or less of virtue in the

recipients. Wherefore it is written in the book Of Causes: "The First

Goodness sends His good gifts forth upon things in one stream. Verily

each thing receives from this stream according to the manner of its

virtue and its being." And we can have a sensible, living example of

this in the Sun. We see the light of the Sun, which is one thing,

derived from one fountain, to be variously received by material

substances; as Albertus Magnus says in his book On the Intellect, that

certain bodies, through having mixed in themselves an excess of

transparent brightness, so soon as the Sun sees them they become so

bright that, by the multiplication of light within them, their aspect

is hardly discernible, and from themselves they render back to others

great splendour or brilliancy, such as is gold and any gem. Sure I am

that by being entirely transparent, not only do they receive the

light, but that they do not intercept it; nay, they pass it on, like

stained glass, coloured with their own colour, to other things. And

there are certain other bodies so overpowering in the purity of the

transparency that they become so radiant as to overpower the

adjustments of the eye, and you cannot look at them without fatigue of

sight; such as are the mirrors. Certain others are so free from

transparency, that but little light can they receive; as is the Earth.

Thus the Goodness of God is received in sundrywise by the sundry

substances, that is, in one way by the Angels, who are without

grossness of matter, as if transparent through their purity of form;

and otherwise by the human Soul, which although on one side it may be

free from matter, on another side it is impeded: even as the man who

is all in the water but his head, of whom one cannot say that he is

entirely in the water, or entirely out of it. Again otherwise it is

received by the animals, whose soul is wholly comprised in matter; but

I say that the soul of animals receives of the Goodness of God in

proportion as it is ennobled. Again otherwise is it received by the

minerals; and otherwise by the Earth, than by the others, because the

Earth is most material, and therefore most remote, and most out of all

proportion to the First most simple and most high Cause, which is

alone Intellectual, that is to say, God.

And although here below there may be placed general degrees of

excellence, nevertheless, singular degrees of excellence may also be

placed; that is to say, that amongst human Souls one Soul may receive

more bountifully than another. And since in the intellectual order of

the Universe one ascends and descends by degrees almost continuous

from the lowest form to the highest, and from the highest to the

lowest, as we see in the visible order of things; and between the

Angelic Nature, which is intellectual, and the Human Soul there may be

no step, but the one rise to the other as it were continuously through

the height of the degrees; and from the Human Soul and the most

perfect soul of the brute animals, again, there may not be any break

in the descent. For as we see many men so vile and of such low

condition that it seems almost that it can be no other than bestial,

so it is to be asserted and firmly believed that there may be some men

so noble and of a condition so exalted that it can be no other than

that of the Angel. Otherwise the human species could not be continued

on every side, which cannot be. Such as these Aristotle calls, in the

seventh book of the Ethics, Divine; and such a one I say that this

Lady is, so that the Divine Virtue, after the manner that it descends

into the Angel, descends into her.

Then when I say, "Fair one who doubt," I prove this by the experience

that it is possible to have of it in those operations which are proper

to the rational Soul, wherein the Divine Light shines forth more

quickly, that is, in the speech and in the actions, which are wont to

be termed conduct and deportment. Wherefore it is to be known that

only man amongst the animals speaks, and has conduct and acts which

are called rational, because he alone has Reason in himself. And if

any one might wish to say, in contradiction, that a certain bird can

speak, as appears true, especially of the magpie and of the parrot;

and that some beast performs acts, or rather things, by rule, as

appears in the ape and in some other; I reply that it is not true that

they speak, nor that they have rules, because they have not Reason,

from which these things must proceed; neither is there in them the

principle of these operations; neither do they know what that is;

neither do they understand that by those acts something is intended;

but that only which they see and hear they represent, even as the

image of somebody may be reflected in a glass. Wherefore, as in the

mirror the corporal image which the mirror shows is not true, so the

image of Reason, in the acts and the speech which the brute soul

represents, or rather shows, is not true. I say that what gentle Lady

soever doubts should "go with her, mark the grace In all her acts." I

do not say man, because one can derive experience more modestly from

the woman than from the man; and I say she will find that "Downward

from Heaven bends An angel when she speaks." For her speech, because

of its exalted character and because of its sweetness, kindles in the

mind of him who hears it a thought of Love, which I call a celestial

Spirit; since from Heaven is the source and from Heaven the intention

thereof, as has been already narrated. From which thought I pass to a

firm opinion that this Lady is of miraculous power, that there is "A

power in her by none of us possessed." Her actions, by their suavity

and by their moderation, "Rival in calls to Love that Love must hear."

They cause Love to awaken and again to hear whenever he is sown by the

power of bountiful Nature. Which natural seed acts as in the next

treatise is shown.

Then when I say, "Fair in all like her, fairest she'll appear Who is

most like her," I intend to narrate how the goodness and the power of

her soul are good and useful to others; and, firstly, how useful it is

to other women, saying that she is "Fair in all like her," where I

present a clear or bright example to the women, from gazing at which

they can make their beauty seem gentle in following the same.

Secondly, I relate how useful she is to all people, saying that her

aspect assists our faith, which is more useful to the whole Human Race

than all other things beside; for it is that by which we escape from

Eternal Death and acquire Eternal Life; and she assists our Faith, for

the first foundation of our Faith is on the miracles performed by Him

who was crucified, who created our Reason, and willed that it should

be less than His power. He performed these miracles, then, in His own

name for His saints; and many men are so obstinate that they are in

doubt of those miracles if there be the least mist or cloud around

them; and they cannot believe any miracle unless they have visible

experience of the same; and this Lady is a thing visibly miraculous,

of which the eyes of men daily can have experience, and which can make

the other miracles appear possible to us. Wherefore it is manifest

that this Lady, with her marvellous aspect, assists our Faith. And,

therefore, finally I say:

We, content to call

Her face a Miracle, have Faith made sure:

For that God made her ever to endure.

And thus ends the second section of the second principal part of the

Song according to its Literal meaning.

CHAPTER VIII.

Amongst the Works of Divine Wisdom, Man is the most wonderful,

considering how in one form the Divine Power joined three natures; and

in such a form how subtly harmonized his body must be. It is organized

for all his distinct powers; wherefore, because of the great concord

there must be, among so many organs, to secure their perfect response

to each other, in all the multitude of men but few are perfect. And if

this Creature is so wonderful, certainly it is a dread thing to

discourse of his conditions, not only in words, but even in thought.

So that to this apply those words of Ecclesiastes: "I beheld all the

Work of God, that a Man cannot find out the Work that is done under

the Sun." And those other words there, where he says: "Let not thine

heart be hasty to utter anything before God: for God is in Heaven, and

thou upon Earth: therefore let thy words be few." I, then, who in this

third section intend to speak of a certain condition of such a

creature, inasmuch as, through the goodness of the Soul, visible

beauty appears in his body, I begin timorously uncertain, intending,

if not fully, at least partially, to untie such a knot as this. I say,

then, that since the meaning of that section is clear, wherein this

Lady is praised on the part of the Soul, we are now to proceed and to

see how it is when I say: "Her aspect shows delights of Paradise." I

praise her on the part of the body, and I say that in her aspect

bright gleams appear which show us pleasant things, and amongst others

those of Paradise.

The most noble state of all, and that which is the crown of every

good, is to be at peace within one's self; and this is to be happy.

And this content is truly (although in another manner) in her aspect;

so that, by looking at her, the people find peace, so sweetly does her

Beauty feed the eyes of the beholders; but in another way, for the

Peace that is perpetual in Paradise is not attainable by any man.

And since some one might ask where this wonderful content appears in

this Lady, I distinguish in her person two parts, in which human

pleasure and displeasure most appear. Wherefore it is to be known that

in whatever part the Soul most fulfils its office, it strives most

earnestly to adorn that part, and there it does its work most subtly.

Wherefore we see that in the Face of Man, where it fulfils its office

more than in any other outward part, it works so subtly that, by

making itself subtle therein as much as its material permits, it

causes that no face is like another, because its utmost power over

matter, which is dissimilar in almost all, is there brought into

action; and because in the face the Soul works especially in two

places, as if in those two places all the three Natures of the Soul

had jurisdiction, that is, in the Eyes and in the Mouth, these it

chiefly adorns, and there it spends its care to make all beautiful if

it can. And in these two places I say that those pleasures of content

appear, saying: "Seen in her eyes and in her smiling face;" the which

two places, by means of a beautiful comparison, may be designated the

balconies of the woman who dwells in the house of the body, she being

the Soul; because there, although veiled, as it were, the Soul often

shows itself. The Soul shows itself so evidently in the eyes that it

is possible to know its present passion if you look attentively.

Six passions are proper to the human Soul of which the Philosopher

makes mention in his Rhetoric, namely, Grace, Zeal, Mercy, Envy, Love,

and Shame; and with whichever of these the Soul is impassioned, there

comes into the window of the Eyes the semblance of it, unless it be

repressed within, and shut from view by great power of will. Wherefore

some one formerly plucked out his eyes that an inward shame should not

appear without, as Statius the Poet says of the Theban Oedipus when he

says that with eternal night he loosed his damnèd shame.

It reveals itself in the Mouth, like colour behind glass as it were.

And what is a smile or a laugh except a coruscation of the Soul's

delight, a light shot outwardly from that which shines within? And

therefore it is right for a man to reveal his Soul by a well-tempered

cheerfulness, smiling moderately with a due restraint, and with slight

movement of the limbs; so that the Lady, that is, the Soul, which

then, as has been said, shows herself, may appear modest, and not

dissolute. Therefore the book on the Four Cardinal Virtues commands us

thus: "Let thy smile be without loud laughter, that is, without

cackling like a hen."

Ah, the sweet wonder of my Lady's smile, which is never seen but in

the eyes!

And I say of these delights seen in her eyes and smile: "Love brought

them there as to his dwelling place;" where it is possible to consider

Love in a twofold form. First, the Love of the Soul, peculiar or

proper to these places; secondly, universal Love, which inclines

things to love and to be loved, which ordains the Soul to rule these

parts.

Then, when I say, "They dazzle Reason," I excuse myself for this, that

it appears of such exceeding beauty that I can tell but little, owing

to its overpowering force; and I say that I can say but little

concerning it for two reasons. The one is, that those things which

appear in her aspect overpower our intellect; and I tell how this

conquest is made: that "They dazzle Reason, as sunbeams our eyes,"

when the Sun overpowers our feeble sight, if not also the healthy and

the strong. The other is, that the man cannot look fixedly at it,

because the Soul becomes inebriate therein; so that incontinently,

after gazing thereat, it fails in all its operations.

Then, when I say, "Rain from her beauty little flames of fire," I

recur to discourse of its effect, since to discourse entirely of it is

not possible. Wherefore it is to be known that all those things which

subdue our intellect, so that it is unable to see what they are, are

most suitably to be discussed in their effects; wherefore of God, and

of His separate substances, and of the first matter we can thus have

some knowledge. And therefore I say that the beauty of that Lady rains

little flames of fire, meaning the ardour of Love and of Charity,

"Made living with a spirit," that is, Love informed by a gentle

spirit, which is direct desire, through which and from which "to

create Good thoughts;" and it not only does this, but it crushes and

destroys its opposite, the innate vices which are especially the foes

of all good thoughts.

And here it is to be known that there are certain vices in the Man to

which he is naturally disposed; as certain men of a choleric

complexion are disposed to anger: and such vices as these are innate,

that is, natural. Others are the vices of habit, for which not the

complexion, but habit, or custom, is to blame; such as intemperance,

and especially intemperance in wine. But these vices are subdued and

put to flight by good habits, and the man is made virtuous thereby

without finding fatigue in his moderation, as the Philosopher says in

the second book of the Ethics. Truly there is this difference between

the natural passions and the habitual, that through use of good morals

the habitual entirely vanish, because their origin, the evil habit, is

destroyed by its opposite; but the natural, the source of which is in

the complexion of the passionate man, although they may be made much

lighter by good morals, yet they do not entirely disappear as far as

regards the first cause, but they almost wholly disappear in act,

because custom is not equal to nature, which is the source of such a

passion. And therefore the man is more praiseworthy who guides himself

and rules himself when he is of an evil disposition by nature, in

opposition to natural impulse, than he who, being gifted with a good

disposition by nature, carries himself naturally well; as it is more

praiseworthy to control a bad horse than one that is not troublesome.

I say, then, that those little flames which rain down from her beauty

destroy the innate, or the natural, vices, to make men understand that

her beauty has power to renew Nature in those who behold it, which is

a miraculous thing. And this confirms that which is observed above in

the other chapter when I say that she is the helper of our Faith.

Finally, when I say, "Lady, who may desire Escape from blame," I

infer, under pretext of admonishing another, the end for which so much

beauty was made. And I say that what lady believes her beauty to be

open to blame through some defect, let her look on this most perfect

example; where it is understood that it is designed not only to

improve and raise the good, but also to convert evil to good. And,

finally, it is subjoined that she is "God's thought," that is, from

the Mind of God. And this to make men understand that, by design of

the Creator, Nature is made to produce such an effect.

And thus ends the whole of the second chief part of the Song.

CHAPTER IX.

The order of the present treatise requires, after these two parts of

the Song have been discussed, according to my intention, that we now

proceed to the third, in which I intend to purify the Song from a

reproof which might be unfavourable to it.

And it is this, that before I composed it, this Lady seeming to me to

be somewhat fierce and haughty against me, I made a little ballad, in

which I called her proud and angry, which appears to be contrary to

that which is here reasoned; and therefore I turn to the Song, and,

under colour of teaching it how it is proper that it should excuse

itself, I make an excuse for that which came before. And this, when

one addresses inanimate things, is a figure which is called by

rhetoricians, Prosopopoeia, and the Poets often use it. "My Song, it

seems you speak this to oppose," The intention of which address, to

make it more easy of understanding, it behoves me to divide into three

sections: first, one affirms wherefore excuse is necessary; then, one

proceeds with the excuse, when I say, "Though Heaven, you know;"

finally, I speak to the Song as to a person well skilled in that which

it is right to do when I say, "Be such excuse allowed."

I say, then, in the first place: "My Song, it seems you speak this to

oppose The saying of a sister Song of mine." For the sake of

similitude, I say sister; for as that woman is called a sister who is

born of the same father, so may a man call that work a sister which is

wrought by the same worker; for our work is in some degree a thing

begotten. And I say why it seems opposed or contrary to that sister

Song, saying: "This lovely Lady whom you count divine, Your sister

called disdainful and morose." This accusation being affirmed, I

proceed to the excuse, by quoting an example, wherein the Truth is

quite opposite to the appearance of Truth, and it is quite possible to

take the false semblance of Truth for Truth itself, regarding Truth

itself as Falsehood. I say: "Though Heaven, you know, is ever high and

pure, Men's eyes may fail, and find a star obscure;" where it is shown

that it is the property of colour and light to be visible, as

Aristotle affirms in the second book Of the Soul and in the book on

Sense and Sensation. Other things, indeed, are visible, but it is not

their property to be so, nor to be tangible, as in form, height,

number, motion, and rest, which are said to be subject to the Common

Sense, and which we comprehend by union of many senses; but of colour

and light it is the property to be visible, because with the sight

only we comprehend them. These visible things, both those of which it

is the property and those subject to the Common Sense, inasmuch as

they are visible, come within the eye; I do not say the things, but

their form; through the transparent medium, not really, but by

intention, as it were through transparent glass. And in the humour

which is in the pupil of the eye this current which makes the form

visible is completed, because that humour is closed behind like a

mirror which has its glass backed with lead; so that it cannot pass

farther on, but strikes there, after the manner of a ball, and stops;

so that the form which does not appear in the transparent medium,

having reached the disc behind, shines brightly thereon; and this is

the reason why the image appears only in the glass which has lead at

the back.

From this pupil the visual spirit, which is continued from it to the

part of the Brain, the anterior, where the sensitive power is,

suddenly, without loss of time, depicts it as in the clear spring of a

fountain; and thus we see. Wherefore, in order that its vision be

truthful, that is, such as the visible thing is in itself, the medium

through which the form comes to the eye must be without any colour,

and so also the humour of the pupil; otherwise the visible form would

be stained of the colour of the medium and of that of the pupil. And

this is the reason why they who wish to make things appear of a

certain colour in a mirror interpose that colour between the glass and

the lead, the glass being pressed over it.

Plato and other Philosophers said, indeed, that our sight was not

because the visible came into the eye, but because the visual virtue

went out to the visible form. And this opinion is confuted by the

Philosopher in that book of his on Sense and Sensation. Having thus

considered this law of vision, one can easily perceive how, although

the star is always in one way bright, clear, and resplendent, and

receives no change whatever except that of local movement, as is

proved in that book on Heaven and the World, yet from many causes it

may appear dim and obscure; since it may appear thus on account of the

medium, the atmosphere, that changes continually. This medium changes

from light to darkness, according to the presence or absence of the

Sun; and during the presence of the Sun the medium, which is

transparent, is so full of light that it overpowers the star, and

therefore it no longer appears brilliant. This medium also changes

from rare to dense, from dry to moist, because of the vapours of the

Earth which rise continually. The medium, thus changed, changes by its

density the image of the star, which passes through it, makes it

appear dim, and by its moisture or dryness changes it in colour. In

like manner it may thus appear through the visual organ, that is, the

eye, which on account of some infirmity, or because of fatigue, is

changed into some degree of dimness or into some degree of weakness.

So it happens very often, owing to the membrane of the pupil becoming

suffused with blood, on account of some corruption produced by

weakness, that things all appear of a red colour; and therefore the

star appears so coloured. And owing to the sight being weakened, there

results in it some dispersion of the spirit, so that things do not

appear united, but scattered, almost in the same way as our writing

does on a wet piece of paper. And this is the reason why many persons,

when they wish to read, remove the paper to some distance from the

eyes, in order that the image thereof may come within the eye more

easily and more subtly, and thereby the lettering is left impressed on

the sight more distinctly and connectedly. For like reason the star

also may appear blurred; and I had experience of this in the same year

in which this Song was born, for, by trying the eyes very much in the

labour of reading, the visual spirits were so weakened that the stars

all appeared to me to be blurred by some white mist: and by means of

long repose in shady and cool places, and by cooling the ball of the

eye with spring water, I re-united the scattered powers, which I

restored to their former good condition.

And thus, for the reasons mentioned above, there are many visible

causes why the star can appear to us different to what it really is.

CHAPTER X.

Leaving this digression, which has been needful for seeing the Truth,

I return to the proposition, and I say that, as our eyes call, that

is, judge, the star other than it really is as to its true condition,

so this little ballad judged this Lady according to appearance, other

than the Truth, through infirmity of the Soul, which was impassioned

with too much desire. And this I make evident when I say that "fear

possessed her soul." For this which I saw in her presence appeared

fierce or proud to me. Where it is to be known that in proportion as

the agent is more closely united to the patient, so much the more

powerful is the passion, as may be understood from the opinion of the

Philosopher in his book On Generation. Wherefore in proportion as the

desired thing draws nigh to the person who desires it, so much the

greater is the desire; and the Soul, more impassioned, unites itself

more closely to the carnal part, and abandons reason more and more; so

that the individual no longer judges like a man, but almost like some

other animal, even according to appearance, not discerning the Truth.

And this is the reason why the countenance, modest according to the

truth, appears disdainful and proud in her.

And that little ballad spoke, according to that judgment, as sensual

and irrational at once. And herein it is sufficiently understood that

this Song judges this Lady according to Truth, by the disagreement

which it has with that other Song of harmony between it and that

ballad. And not without reason I say, "When I come near to her

glance," and not when she comes within mine. But in this I wish to

express the great power which her eyes had over me; for, as if I had

been transparent, through every part their light shone through me. And

here it would be possible to assign reasons natural and supernatural,

but let it suffice here to have said as much as I have; elsewhere I

will discourse of it more suitably. Then when I say, "Be such excuse

allowed," I impose on the Song instruction how, by the assigned

reasons, it may excuse itself there where that is needful, namely,

where there may be any suspicion of this opposition; for there is no

more to say, except that whoever may feel doubtful as to the matter

wherein this Song differs from the other, let him look at the reason

which has been here stated. And such a figure as this is quite

laudable in Rhetoric, and even necessary when the words are to one

person and the intention is to another; because it is always

praiseworthy to admonish and necessary also; but it is not always

suitable in the mouth of every one. Wherefore, when the son is aware

of the vice of the father, and when the subject is aware of the vice

of the lord, and when the friend knows that the shame of his friend

would be increased to him by admonition from him, when he knows that

it would detract from his honour, or when he knows that his friend

would not be patient, but enraged at the admonition, this figure is

most beautiful and most useful. You may term it dissimulation; it is

similar to the work of that wise warrior who attacked the castle on

one side in order to draw off the defence from the other, for the

attack and the design of the commander are not aimed at one and the

same part.

Also, I lay a command on this Song, that it ask permission of this

Lady to speak of her; whereby one may infer that a man ought not to be

presumptuous in praising another, ought not to take it for granted in

his own mind that it is pleasing to the person praised, because often,

when some one believes he is bestowing praise, it is taken as blame,

either through defect of the speaker or through defect of him who

hears. Wherefore it is requisite to have much discretion in this

matter; which discretion is tantamount to asking permission, in the

way in which I say that this Song or Poem should ask for it.

And thus ends the whole Literal meaning of this treatise; wherefore

the order of the work now requires the Allegorical exposition,

following the Truth, to be proceeded with.

CHAPTER XI.

Returning now, as the order requires, to the beginning of the Song, I

say that this Lady is that Lady of the Intellect who is called

Philosophy. But naturally praise excites a desire to know the person

praised; and to know the thing may be to know what it is considered to

be in itself, and in all that pertains to it, as the Philosopher says

in the beginning of the book On Physics; and the name may reveal this

when it bears some meaning, as he says in the fourth chapter of the

Metaphysics, where it is said that the definition is that reason which

the name signifies. Here, therefore, it is necessary, before

proceeding farther with her praises, to prove and to say what this is

that is called Philosophy, what this name signifies; and when this has

been demonstrated, the present Allegory will be more efficaciously

discussed. And first of all I will state who first gave this name;

then I shall proceed to its signification.

I say, then, that anciently in Italy, almost from the beginning of the

foundation of Rome, which was seven hundred and fifty years, a little

more or less, before the advent of the Saviour, according as Paul

Orosius writes, about the time of Numa Pompilius, second king of the

Romans, there lived a most noble Philosopher, who was named

Pythagoras. And that he might be living about that time appears from

something to which Titus Livius alludes incidentally in the first part

of his History. And before him they were called the followers of

Science, not Philosophers but Wise Men such as were those Seven most

ancient Wise Men, who still live in popular fame. The first of them

had the name of Solon, the second Chilon, the third Periander, the

fourth Talus, the fifth Cleobulus, the sixth Bias, the seventh

Pittacus. Pythagoras, being asked if he were considered to be a Wise

Man, rejected this name, and stated himself to be not a Wise Man, but

a Lover of Wisdom. And from this circumstance it subsequently arose

that any man studious to acquire knowledge, was called a Lover of

Wisdom, that is, a Philosopher; for inasmuch as "Philo" in Greek is

equivalent to "Love" and "sophia" is equivalent to Wisdom, therefore,

"Philo and sophia" mean the same as Love of Wisdom. Wherefore it is

possible to see that those two words make that name Philosopher, which

is as much as to say Lover of Wisdom. Therefore it may be observed

that it is not a term of arrogance, but of humility.

From this sprang naturally the word philosophy, as from the word

friend springs naturally the word friendship. Wherefore it is possible

to see, considering the signification of the first and second word,

that philosophy is no other than friendship to wisdom, or rather to

knowledge; wherefore to a certain degree it is possible to call every

man a philosopher, according to the natural love which generates a

desire for knowledge in each individual.

But since the natural passions are common to all men, we do not

specify those passions by some distinctive word, applied to some

individual who shares our common nature, as when we say, John is the

friend of Martin, we do not mean to signify merely the natural love

which all men bear to all men, but we mean the friendship founded upon

the natural love which is distinct and peculiar to certain

individuals. Thus we do not term any one a philosopher because of the

love common to us all. It is the intention or meaning of Aristotle, in

the eighth book of the Ethics, that that man may be called a friend

whose friendship is not concealed from the person beloved, and to whom

also the beloved person is a friend, so that the attachment is mutual;

and this must be so either for mutual benefit, or for pleasure, or for

credit's sake. And thus, in order that a man may be a philosopher, it

must be love to Wisdom which makes one of the sides friendly; it must

be study and care which make the other side also friendly, so that

familiarity and manifestation of benevolence may spring up between

them; because without love and without study one cannot be called a

philosopher, but there must be both the one and the other.

And as friendship for the sake of pleasure given or for profit is not

true friendship, but accidental, as the Ethics demonstrate, so

philosophy for delight or profit is not true philosophy, but

accidental. Wherefore one ought not to call him a true philosopher who

for some pleasure or other may be a friend of Wisdom in some degree;

even as there are many who take delight in repeating songs and in

studying the same, and who delight in studying Rhetoric and Music, and

who avoid and abandon the other Sciences, which are all members of

Wisdom's body. One ought not to call him a true philosopher who is the

friend of Wisdom for the sake of profit; such as are the Lawyers,

Doctors, and almost all the Religious Men, who do not study for the

sake of knowledge, but to acquire money or dignity; and if any one

would give them that which they seek to acquire, they would not

continue to study. And as amongst the various kinds of friendship,

that which is for profit may be called the meanest friendship, so such

men as these have less share in the name of Philosopher than any other

people.

Wherefore as the friendship conceived through honest affection is true

and perfect and perpetual, so is that philosophy true and perfect

which is generated by upright desire for knowledge, without regard to

aught else, and by the goodness of the friendly soul; which is as much

as to say, by right appetite and right reason. And it is possible to

say here that as true friendship amongst men is, that each love each

entirely, so the true Philosopher loves each part of Wisdom, and

Wisdom each part of the Philosopher, so as to draw him wholly to

herself, and to allow no thought of his to stray away to other things.

Wherefore Wisdom herself says in the Proverbs of Solomon, "I love

those who love me." And as true friendship of the mind, considered in

itself alone, has for its subject the knowledge of good effects, and

for its form the desire for the same, even so Philosophy considered in

itself alone, apart from the Soul, has understanding for its subject,

and for its form an almost divine love to intellect.

And as the efficient cause of true friendship is Virtue, so the

efficient cause of Philosophy is Truth. And as the end of true

friendship is true affection, which proceeds from the intercourse

proper to Humanity, that is, according to the dictates of Reason, as

Aristotle seems to think in the ninth book of the Ethics, so the end

of Philosophy is that most excellent affection which suffers no

intermission or defect, that is, the true happiness which is acquired

by the contemplation of Truth.

And thus it is now possible to see who this my Lady is, in all her

causes and in her whole reason, and why she is called Philosophy; and

who is a true Philosopher, and who is one by accident.

But in some fervour or heat of mind the one and the other end of the

acts and of the passions are called by the word for the act itself or

the passion; as Virgil does in the second book of the Æneid, where he

calls Hector, "Oh, light" (which was the act) "and hope" (which is the

passion) "of the Trojans:" for he was neither the light nor the hope,

but he was the end whence came to them their light in council, and he

was the end in which was reposed their hope of safety; as Statius

writes in the fifth book of the Thebaid, when Hypsipyle says to

Archemorus, "Oh, consolation of things and of the lost country! oh,

honour of my servitude!" even as we say daily, showing the friend,

"See my friendship;" and the father says to the son, "My love;" and so

it is that, through long custom, the Sciences, in which most fervently

Philosophy finds the end to which she looks, are called by her name,

such as the Natural Science, the Moral Science, and the Metaphysical

Science, which last, because most necessarily she looks to her end in

that chiefly and most fervently, is called the First Philosophy.

Now, therefore, since it has been seen what the true Philosophy is in

its essence; which is that Lady of whom I speak; how her noble name

through custom is communicated to the Sciences, and the first science

is called the First Philosophy, I may proceed further with her praise.

CHAPTER XII.

In the first chapter of this treatise the reason which moved me to

this Song is so fully discussed that it is no longer necessary to

discuss it further, for one can easily enough recall to mind what has

been said in this exposition: and therefore, following the divisions

made for the Literal meaning, I shall run through the Song, turning

back to the sense of the letter where it may be needful. I say, "Love,

reasoning of my Lady in my mind." By Love I mean the labour and pains

I took to acquire the love of this Lady. If one wishes to know what

labour, it can be here considered in two ways. There is one study

which leads the man to the daily use of Art and Science; there is

another study which he will employ in the acquired use. The first is

that which I call Love, which fills my mind continually with new and

most exalted ideas of this Lady: even as the anxious pains which one

takes to acquire a friendship are wont to do; for, when desiring that

friendship, a man is wont to take anxious thought concerning it. This

is that study and that affection which usually precedes in men the

begetting of the friendship, when already on one side Love is born,

and desires and strives that it may be on the other; for, as is said

above, Philosophy is born when the Soul and Wisdom have become

friends, so that the one is loved by the other.

Neither is it again needful to discuss that first stanza in the

present explanation, which was reasoned out as the Proem in the

Literal exposition; since, from the first argument thereof, it is easy

enough to make out the meaning in this the second one.

We may proceed, then, to the second part, which begins the treatise,

and to that place where I say, "The Sun sees not in travel round the

Earth." Here it is to be known that as, when discoursing of a sensible

thing, one handles it suitably by means of an insensible thing, so of

an intelligible thing, one fitly argues by means of an unintelligible.

In the Literal sense one speaks of the Sun as a substantial and

sensible body; so now it is fit, by image of the Sun, to discourse of

the Spiritual and Unintelligible, that is, God.

There is no visible thing in all the world more worthy to serve as a

type of God than the Sun, which illuminates with visible light itself

first, and then all the celestial and elemental bodies. Thus, God

illuminates Himself first with intellectual light, and then the

celestial and other intelligible beings. The Sun vivifies all things

with his heat, and if anything is destroyed thereby, it is not by the

intention of the cause, but it is an accidental effect: thus God

vivifies all things in His Goodness, and, if any suffer evil, it is

not by the Divine intention, but the effect is accidental. For, if God

made the Angels good and evil, He did not make both by intention, but

He made the good only; there followed afterwards, beyond His

intention, the wickedness of the evil ones; but not so far beyond His

intention that God could not foreknow in Himself their wickedness; but

so great was the loving desire to produce the Spiritual creature that

the foreknowledge that some would come to a bad end neither could nor

should prevent God from continuing the production; as it would not be

to the praise of Nature if, knowing of herself that the flowers of a

tree in a certain part must perish, she should refuse to produce

flowers on that tree, and should abandon the production of

fruit-bearing trees as vain and useless. I say, then, that God, who

encircles and understands all, in His encircling and His understanding

sees nothing so gentle, so noble, as He sees when He shines on this

Philosophy. For, although God Himself, beholding, may see all things

together, inasmuch as the distinction of things is in Him in the same

way as the effect is in the cause, yet He sees those things also apart

and distinct. He sees, then, this Lady the most noble of all

absolutely, inasmuch as most perfectly He sees her in Himself and in

her essence. If what has been said above be recalled to mind,

Philosophy is a loving use of Wisdom; which especially is in God,

because in Him is Supreme Wisdom, and Supreme Love, and Supreme

Action; which cannot be elsewhere except inasmuch as it proceeds from

Him. It is, then, the Divine Philosophy of the Divine Being, since in

Him nothing can be that is not part of His Essence; and it is most

noble, because the Divine Essence is most noble, and it is in Him in a

manner perfect and true, as if by eternal wedlock; it is in the other

Intelligences in a less degree, as if platonic, as if a virgin love

from whom no lover receives full and complete joy, but contents

himself by gazing on the beauty of her countenance. Wherefore it is

possible to say that God sees not, that He does not intently regard,

anything so noble as this Lady; I say anything, inasmuch as He sees

and distinguishes the other things, as has been said, seeing Himself

to be the cause of all. Oh, most noble and most excellent heart, which

is at peace in the bride of the Ruler of Heaven; and not bride only,

but sister, and the daughter beloved above all others.

CHAPTER XIII.

Having seen in the beginning of the praises of this Lady how subtly it

is said that she is of the Divine Substance, as was first to be

considered, we proceed now to consider her as she is in the

Intelligences that proceed thence. "All minds of Heaven wonder at her

worth," where it is to be known that I say, "minds of Heaven," making

that allusion to God which has been mentioned above; and from this one

excludes the Intelligences who are exiled from the eternal country,

who can never study Philosophy, because love in them is entirely

extinct, and for the study of Philosophy, as has been already said,

Love is necessary. One sees, therefore, that the spirits of Hell are

deprived of the sight of this most beautiful Lady; and, since she is

the blessing of the intellect, the deprivation of her is most bitter

and full of every sadness.

Then, when I say, "Mortals, enamoured, find her in their thought," I

descend to show how she also may come into the Human Intelligence in a

secondary degree; with which Human Philosophy I then proceed through

the treatise, praising it. I say, then, that the mortals who "find her

in their thought" in this life do not always find her there, but only

"When Love his peace into their hearts has brought;" wherein there are

to be seen three points which are alluded to in this text.

The first is when one says, "Mortals, enamoured," because it seems to

make a distinction in the human race, and of necessity it must be

made; for, according to what manifestly appears, and which in the

following treatise will be specially reasoned out, the greatest part

of men live more according to the Sense than according to Reason; and

those who live according to the Sense can never be enamoured of this

Lady, since of her they can have no apprehension whatever.

The second point is when it says, "When Love his peace into their

minds has brought," where it appears to make a distinction of time.

And that is necessary; for, although the separate Intelligences gaze

at this Lady continually, the Human Intelligence cannot do so; since

Human Nature, besides that which gives delight to the Intellect and

the Reason, has need of many things requisite for its support which

contemplation cannot furnish forth. Therefore our Wisdom is sometimes

habitual only, and not actual; and this does not happen to the other

Intelligences, which alone are perfect in their intellectual nature.

And so, when our soul is not in the act of contemplation, one cannot

truly say that it is in Philosophy, except inasmuch as it has the

habit of it, and the power of being able to arouse it; sometimes,

therefore, she is with the people who are enamoured of her here below,

and sometimes not.

The third point is, when it speaks of the time when those people are

with her, namely, when Love has brought into their minds his peace;

which means no other than when the man is in the act of contemplation,

since he does not strive to feel the peace of that Lady except in the

act of contemplation.

And thus one sees how this Lady is firstly in the Mind of God,

secondly in the other separate Intelligences through continual

contemplation, and afterwards in the human intellect through

interpreted contemplation. But the man who has her for his Lady is

ever to be termed a Philosopher, notwithstanding that he may not be

always in the final act of Philosophy, for it is usual to name other

men after their habits. Wherefore we call any man virtuous, not merely

when performing virtuous actions, but from having the habit or custom

of virtue. And we call a man eloquent, even when he is not speaking,

from his habit of eloquence, that is, of speaking well.

And of this Philosophy, in which Human Intelligence has part, there

will now be the following encomiums to prove how great a part of her

good gifts is bestowed on Human Nature. I say, then, afterwards:

Her Maker saw that she was good, and poured,

Beyond our Nature, fulness of His Power

On her pure Soul, whence shone this holy dower

Through all her frame.

For the capacity of our Nature is subdued by it, which it makes

beautiful and virtuous. Wherefore, although into the habit of that

Lady one may somewhat come, it is not possible to say that any one who

enters thereinto properly has that habit; since the first study, that

whereby the habit is begotten, cannot perfectly acquire that

philosophy. And here one sees her lowly praise; for, perfect or

imperfect, she never loses the name of perfection. And because of this

her surpassing excellence, it says that the Soul of Philosophy "shone

Through all her frame," that is, that God ever imparts to her of His

Light.

Here we may recall to mind what is said above, that Love is a form of

Philosophy, and therefore here is called her Soul; which Love is

manifest in the use of Wisdom, and such use brings with it a wonderful

beauty, that is to say, contentment under any condition of the time,

and contempt for those things which other men make their masters.

Wherefore it happens that those other unhappy ones who gaze thereon,

and think over their own defects from the desire for perfection, fall

into the weariness of sighs; and this is meant where it says: "That

from the eyes she touches heralds fly Heartward with longings,

heavenward with a sigh."

CHAPTER XIV.

As in the Literal exposition, after the general praises one descends

to the especial, firstly on the part of the Soul, then on the part of

the body, so now the text proceeds after the general encomium to

descend to the especial commendation. As it is said above, Philosophy

here has Wisdom for its material subject and Love for its form, and

the habit of contemplation for the union of the two. Wherefore in this

passage which subsequently begins, "On her fair form Virtue Divine

descends," I mean to praise Love, which is part of Philosophy. Here it

is to be known that for a virtue to descend from one thing into

another there is no other way than to reduce that thing into its own

similitude; as we see evidently in the natural agents, for their

virtue descending into the things that are the patients, they bring

those things into their similitude as far as they are able to attain

it.

We see that the Sun, pouring his rays down on this Earth, reduces the

things thereon to his own similitude of light in proportion as they by

their own disposition are able to receive light of his light. Thus, I

say that God reduces this Love to His own Similitude as much as it is

possible for it to bear likeness to Him. And it alludes to the nature

of the creative act, saying, "As on the Angel that beholds His face."

Where again it is to be known that the first Agent, who is God, paints

His Virtue on some things by means of direct radiance, and on some

things by means of reflected splendour; wherefore into the separate

Intelligences the Divine Light shines without any interposing medium;

into the others it is reflected from those Intelligences which were

first illumined.

But since mention is here made of Light and Splendour, for the more

perfect understanding thereof I will show the difference between those

words, according to the opinion of Avicenna. I say that it is the

custom of Philosophers to speak of Heaven as Light, inasmuch as Light

is there in its primeval Spring, or its first origin. They speak of it

as a ray of Light while it passes through the medium from its source

into the first body in which it has its end; they call it Splendour

where it is reflected back from some part that has received

illumination. I say, then, that the Divine Virtue or Power draws this

Love into Its Own Similitude without any interposing medium.

And it is possible to make this evident, especially in this, that as

the Divine Love is Eternal, so must its object of necessity be

eternal, so that those things are eternal which He loves. And thus it

makes this Love to love, for the Wisdom into which this Love strikes

is eternal. Wherefore it is written of her: "From the beginning,

before Time was created, I am: and in the Time to come I shall not

fail." And in the Proverbs of Solomon this Wisdom says: "I am

established for ever." And in the beginning of the Gospel of John, her

eternity is openly alluded to, as it is possible to observe. And

therefore it results that there, where this Love shines, all the other

Loves become obscure and almost extinct, since its eternal object

subdues and overpowers all other objects in a manner beyond all

comparison; and therefore the most excellent Philosophers in their

actions openly demonstrate it, whereby we know that they have treated

all other things with indifference except Wisdom. Wherefore

Democritus, neglecting all care of his own person, trimmed neither his

beard, nor the hair of his head, nor his nails. Plato, indifferent to

the riches of this world, despised the royal dignity, for he was the

son of a king. Aristotle, caring for no other friend, combated with

his own best friend, even with the above-named Plato, his dearest

friend after Philosophy. And why do we speak of these, when we find

others who, for these thoughts, held their life in contempt, such as

Zeno, Socrates, Seneca, and many more? It is evident, therefore, that

in this Love the Divine Power, after the manner of an Angel, descends

into men; and to give proof of this, the text presently exclaims:

"Fair one who doubt, go with her, mark the grace In all her acts." By

"Fair one" is meant the noble soul of judgment, free in its own power,

which is Reason; hence the other souls cannot be called Ladies, but

handmaids, since they are not for themselves, but for others; and the

Philosopher says, in the first book of Metaphysics, that that thing is

free which is a cause of itself and not for others. It says, "go with

her, mark the grace In all her acts," that is, make thyself the

companion of this Love, and look at that which will be found within

it; and in part it alludes to this, saying, "Downward from Heaven

bends An Angel when she speaks," meaning that where Philosophy is in

action a celestial thought stoops down, in which this being reasons or

discourses beyond the power of Human Nature.

The Song says "from Heaven," to give people to understand that not

only Philosophy, but the thoughts friendly to it, are abstracted from

all low and earthly things. Then afterwards it says how she

strengthens and kindles love wherever she appears with the sweet

persuasions of her actions, which are in all her aspects modest,

gentle, and without any domineering assumption. And subsequently, by

still greater persuasion to induce a desire for her company, it says:

"Fair in all like her, fairest she'll appear Who is most like her."

Again it adds: "We, content to call Her face a Miracle," find help in

it, where it is to be known that the regard of this Lady was freely

ordained to arouse a desire in us for its acquisition, not only in her

countenance, which she reveals to sight, but also in the things which

she keeps hidden. Wherefore as, through her, much of that which is

hidden is seen by means of Reason (and consequently to see by Reason

without her seems a miracle), so, through her, one believes each

miracle in the action of a higher intellectual Power to have reason,

and therefore to be possible. From whence true Faith has its origin,

from which comes the Hope to desire the Future, and from that are born

the works of Charity, by which three Virtues we mount to become

Philosophers in that celestial Athens where Stoics, Peripatetics, and

Epicureans, by the practice of Eternal Truth, concur harmoniously in

one desire.

CHAPTER XV.

In the preceding chapter this glorious Lady is praised according to

one of her component parts, that is, Love. In this chapter I intend to

explain that passage which begins, "Her aspect shows delights of

Paradise," and here it is requisite to discuss and praise her other

part, Wisdom.

The text then says that in the face of this Lady things appear which

show us joys of Paradise; and it distinguishes the place where this

appears, namely, in the eyes and the smile. And here it must be known

that the eyes of Wisdom are her demonstrations, whereby one sees the

Truth most certainly; but her persuasions are in her smile, in which

persuasions the inner Light of Wisdom reveals itself without any veil

or concealment. And in these two is felt that most exalted joy which

is the supreme good in Paradise. This joy cannot be in any other thing

here below, except in gazing into these eyes and upon that smile. And

the reason is this, that since each thing naturally desires its

perfection, without which it cannot be at peace, to have that is to be

blessed. For although it might possess all other things, yet, being

without that, there would remain in it desire, which cannot consist

with perfect happiness, since perfect happiness is a perfect thing,

and desire is a defective thing. For one desires not that which he

has, but that which he has not, and here is a manifest defect. And in

this form solely can human perfection be acquired, as the perfection

of Reason, on which, as on its principal part, our essential being all

depends. All our other actions, as to feel or hear, to take food, and

the rest, are through this one alone; and this is for itself, and not

for others. So that, if that be perfect, it is so perfect that the

man, inasmuch as he is a man, sees each desire fulfilled, and thus he

is happy. And therefore it is said in the Book of Wisdom: "Whoso

casteth away Wisdom and Knowledge is unhappy," that is to say, he

suffers the privation of happiness. From the habit of Wisdom it

follows that a man learns to be happy and content, according to the

opinion of the Philosopher. One sees, then, how in the aspect of this

Lady joys of Paradise appear, and therefore one reads in the Book of

Wisdom quoted above, when speaking of her, "She is a shining whiteness

of the Eternal Light; a Mirror without blemish, of the Majesty of

God." Then when it says, "Things over which the intellect may stray,"

I excuse myself, saying that I can say but little concerning these, on

account of their overpowering influence. Where it is to be known that

in any way these things dazzle our intellect, inasmuch as they affirm

certain things to be, which our intellect is unable to comprehend,

that is, God and Eternity, and the first Matter which most certainly

they do not see, and with all faith they believe to be. And even what

they are we cannot understand; and so, by not denying things, it is

possible to draw near to some knowledge of them, but not otherwise.

Truly here it is possible to have some very strong doubt how it is

that Wisdom can make the man completely happy without being able to

show him certain things perfectly; since the natural desire for

knowledge is in the man, and without fulfilment of the desire he

cannot be fully happy. To this it is possible to reply clearly, that

the natural desire in each thing is in proportion to the possibility

of reaching to the thing desired; otherwise it would pass into

opposition to itself, which is impossible; and Nature would have

worked in vain, which also is impossible.

It would pass into opposition, for, desiring its perfection, it would

desire its imperfection, since he would desire always to desire, and

never fulfil his desire. And into this error the cursed miser falls,

and does not perceive that he desires always to desire, going

backwards to reach to an impossible amount.

Nature also would have worked in vain, since it would not be ordained

to any end; and, in fact, human desire is proportioned in this life to

that knowledge which it is possible to have here. One cannot pass that

point except through error, which is outside the natural intention.

And thus it is proportioned in the Angelic, and it is limited in Human

Nature, and it finds its end in that Wisdom in proportion as the

nature of each can apprehend it.

And this is the reason why the Saints have no envy amongst themselves,

since each one attains the end of his desire, and the desire of each

is in due proportion to the nature of his goodness. Wherefore, since

to know God and certain other things, as Eternity and the first

Matter, is not possible to our Nature, naturally we have no desire for

that knowledge, and hereby is this doubtful question solved.

Then when I say, "Rain from her beauty little flames of fire," I

proceed to another joy of Paradise, that is, from the secondary

felicity, happiness, to this first one, which proceeds from her

beauty, where it is to be known that Morality is the beauty of

Philosophy. For as the beauty of the body is the result of its members

in proportion as they are fitly ordered, so the beauty of Wisdom,

which is the body of Philosophy, as has been said, results from the

order of the Moral Virtues which visibly make that joy. And therefore

I say that her beauty, which is Morality, rains down little flames of

fire, meaning direct desire, which is begotten in the pleasure of the

Moral Doctrine; which desire removes it again from the natural vices,

and not only from the others. And thence springs that happiness which

Aristotle defined in the first book of Ethics, saying, that it is Work

according to Virtue in the Perfect Life.

And when it says, "Fair one, who may desire Escape from blame," it

proceeds in praise of Philosophy. I cry aloud to the people that they

should follow her, telling them of her good gifts, that is to say,

that by following her each one may become good. Therefore it says to

each Soul, that feels its beauty is to blame because it does not

appear what it ought to appear, let her look at this example. Where it

is to be known that the Morals are the beauty of the Soul, that is to

say, the most excellent virtues, which sometimes through vanity or

through pride are made less beautiful or less agreeable, as in the

last treatise it was possible to perceive. And therefore I say that,

in order to shun this, one looks at that Lady, Philosophy, there where

she is the example of Humility, namely, in that part of herself which

is called Moral Philosophy. And I subjoin that by gazing at her (I

say, at Wisdom) in that part, every vicious man will become upright

and good. And therefore I say she has "a spirit to create Good

thoughts, and crush the vices." She turns gently back him who has gone

astray from the right course.

Finally, in highest praise of Wisdom, I say of her that she is the

Mother of every good Principle, saying that she is "God's thought,"

who began the World, and especially the movement of the Heaven by

which all things are generated, and wherein each movement has its

origin, that is to say, that the Divine Thought is Wisdom. She was,

when God made the World; whence it follows that she could make it, and

therefore Solomon said in the Book of Proverbs, in the person of

Wisdom: "When He prepared the Heavens, I was there: when He set a

compass upon the face of the depth; when He established the clouds

above; when He strengthened the fountains of the deep; when He gave to

the sea His decree, that the waters should not pass His commandment;

when He appointed the foundations of the Earth: then I was by Him, as

one brought up with Him, and I was daily His delight, rejoicing always

before Him." O, ye Men, worse than dead, who fly from the friendship

of Wisdom, open your eyes, and see that before you were she was the

Lover of you, preparing and ordaining the process of your being! Since

you were made she came that she might guide you, came to you in your

own likeness; and, if all of you cannot come into her presence, honour

her in her friends, and follow their counsels, as of them who announce

to you the will of this eternal Empress! Close not your ears to

Solomon, who tells you "the path of the Just is as a shining Light,

which goeth forth and increaseth even to the day of salvation." Follow

after them, behold their works, which ought to be to you as a beacon

of light for guidance in the path of this most brief life.

And here we may close the Commentary on the true meaning of the

present Song. The last stanza, which is intended for a refrain, can be

explained easily enough by the Literal exposition, except inasmuch as

it says that I there called this Lady "disdainful and morose." Where

it is to be known that at the beginning this Philosophy appeared to me

on the part of her body, which is Wisdom, morose, for she smiled not

on me, insomuch that as yet I did not understand her persuasions; and

she seemed to me disdainful, for she turned not her glance to me, that

is to say, I could not see her demonstrations. But the defect was

altogether on my side. From this, and from that which is given in the

explanation of the Literal meaning of the Song, the Allegory of the

refrain is evident. It is time, therefore, that we proceed farther,

and this treatise end.

* * * * *

The Fourth Treatise

Soft rhymes of love I used to find

Within my thought, I now must leave,

Not without hope to turn to them again;

But signs of a disdainful mind

That in my Lady I perceive

Have closed the way to my accustomed strain.

And since time suits me now to wait,

I put away the softer style

Proper to love; rhyme subtle and severe

Shall tell how Nobleman's estate

Is won by worth, hold false and vile

The judgment that from wealth derives a Peer.

First calling on that Lord

Who dwells within her eyes,

Containing whom, my Lady learnt

Herself to love and prize.

One raised to Empire held,

As far as he could see,

Descent of wealth, and generous ways,

To make Nobility.

Another, lightly wise,

That saying turned aside,

Perchance for want of generous ways

The second source denied.

And followers of him

Are all the men who rate

Those noble in whose families

The wealth has long been great.

And so long among us

The falsehood has had sway,

That men call him a Nobleman,

Though worthless, who can say.

I nephew am, or son,

Of one worth such a sum;

But he who sees the Truth may know

How vile he has become

To whom the Truth was shown,

Who from the Truth has fled,

And though he walks upon the earth

Is counted with the dead:

Whoever shall define

The man a living tree

Will speak untruth and less than truth,

Though more he may not see.

The Emperor so erred;

First set the false in view,

Proceeding, on the other side,

To what was less than true.

For riches make not worth

Although they can defile:

Nor can their want take worth away:

They are by nature vile.

No painter gives a form

That is not of his knowing;

No tower leans above a stream

That far away is flowing.

How vile and incomplete

Wealth is, let this declare

However great the heap may be

It brings no peace, but care.

And hence the upright mind,

To its own purpose true,

Stands firm although the flood of wealth

Sweep onward out of view

They will not have the vile

Turn noble, nor descent

From parent vile produce a race

For ever eminent.

Yet this, they say, can be,

Their reason halts behind,

Since time they suit to noble birth

By course of time defined.

It follows then from this

That all are high or base,

Or that in Time there never was

Beginning to our race.

But that I cannot hold,

Nor yet, if Christians, they;

Sound intellect reproves their words

As false, and turns away.

And now I seek to tell,

As it appears to me,

What is, whence comes, what signs attest

A true Nobility.

I say that from one root

Each Virtue firstly springs,

Virtue, I mean, that Happiness

To man, by action, brings.

This, as the Ethics teach,

Is habit of right choice

That holds the means between extremes,

So spake that noble voice.

Nobility by right

No other sense has had

Than to import its subject's good,

As vileness makes him bad.

Such virtue shows its good

To others' intellect,

For when two things agree in one,

Producing one effect.

One must from other come,

Or each one from a third,

If each be as each, and more, then one

From the other is inferred.

Where Virtue is, there is

A Nobleman, although

Not where there is a Nobleman

Must Virtue be also.

So likewise that is Heaven

Wherein a star is hung,

But Heaven may be starless; so

In women and the young

A modesty is seen,

Not virtue, noble yet;

Comes virtue from what's noble, as

From black comes violet;

Or from the parent root

It springs, as said before,

And so let no one vaunt that him.

A noble mother bore.

They are as Gods whom Grace

Has placed beyond all sin:

God only gives it to the Soul

That He finds pure within.

That seed of Happiness

Falls in the hearts of few,

Planted by God within the Souls

Spread to receive His dew.

Souls whom this Grace adorns

Declare it in each breath,

From birth that joins the flesh and soul

They show it until death.

In Childhood they obey,

Are gentle, modest, heed

To furnish Virtue's person with

The graces it may need.

Are temperate in Youth,

And resolutely strong,

Love much, win praise for courtesy,

Are loyal, hating wrong.

Are prudent in their Age,

And generous and just,

And glad at heart to hear and speak

When good to man's discussed.

The fourth part of their life

Weds them again to God,

They wait, and contemplate the end,

And bless the paths they trod.

How many are deceived! My Song,

Against the strayers: when you reach

Our Lady, hide not from her that your end

Is labour that would lessen wrong,

And tell her too, in trusty speech,

I travel ever talking of your Friend.

CHAPTER I.

Love, according to the unanimous opinion of the wise men who discourse

of him, and as by experience we see continually, is that which brings

together and unites the lover with the beloved; wherefore Pythagoras

says, "In friendship many become one."

And the things which are united naturally communicate their qualities

to each other, insomuch that sometimes it happens that one is wholly

changed into the nature of the other, the result being that the

passions of the beloved person enter into the person of the lover, so

that the love of the one is communicated to the other, and so likewise

hatred, desire, and every other passion; wherefore the friends of the

one are beloved by the other, and the enemies hated; and so in the

Greek proverb it is said: "With friends all things ought to be in

common."

Wherefore I, having made a friend of this Lady, mentioned above in the

truthful exposition, began to love and to hate according to her love

and her hatred. I then began to love the followers of Truth, and to

hate the followers of Error and Falsehood, even as she does. But since

each thing is to be loved for itself and none are to be hated except

for excess of evil, it is reasonable and upright to hate not the

things, but the evil in the things, and to endeavour to distinguish

between these. And if any person has this intention, my most excellent

Lady understands especially how to distinguish the evil in anything,

which is the cause of hate; since in her is all Reason, and in her is

the fountain-head of all uprightness.

I, following her as much as I could in her work as in her love,

abominated and despised the errors of the people with infamy or

reproach, not cast on those lost in error, but on the errors

themselves; by blaming which, I thought to create displeasure and to

separate the displeased ones from those faults in them which were

hated by me. Amongst which errors one especially I reproved, which,

because it is hurtful and dangerous not only to those who remain in

it, but also to others who reprove it, I separate it from them and

condemn.

This is the error concerning Human Goodness, which, inasmuch as it is

sown in us by Nature, ought to be termed Nobility; which error was so

strongly entrenched by evil custom and by weak intellect that the

opinion of almost all people was falsified or deceived by it; and from

the false opinion sprang false judgments, and from false judgments

sprang unjust reverence and unjust contempt; wherefore the good were

held in vile disdain, and the evil were honoured and exalted. This was

the worst confusion in the world; even as he can see who looks subtly

at that which may result from it. And though it seemed that this my

Lady had somewhat changed her sweet countenance towards me, especially

where I gazed and sought to discover whether the first Matter of the

Elements was created by God, for which reason I strengthened myself to

frequent her presence a little, as if remaining there with her assent,

I began to consider in my mind the fault of man concerning the said

error. And to shun sloth, which is an especial enemy of this Lady, and

to describe or state this error very clearly, this error which robs

her of so many friends, I proposed to cry aloud to the people who are

walking in the path of evil, in order that they might direct their

steps to the right road; and I began a Song, in the beginning of which

I said, "Soft rhymes of love I used to find," wherein I intend to lead

the people back into the right path, the path of right knowledge

concerning true Nobility, as by the knowledge of its text, to the

explanation of which I now turn my attention, any one will be able to

perceive.

And since the intention of this Song is directed to a remedy so

requisite, it was not well to speak under any figure of speech; but it

was needful to prepare this medicine speedily, that speedy might be

the restoration to health, which, being so corrupted, hastened to a

hideous death. It will not, then, be requisite in the exposition of

this Song to unveil any allegory, but simply to discuss its meaning

according to the letter. By my Lady I always mean her who is spoken of

in the preceding Song, that is to say, that Light of supreme virtue,

Philosophy, whose rays cause the flowers of true Nobility to blossom

forth in mankind and to bear fruit in the sons of men; concerning

which true Nobility the proposed Song fully intends to treat.