Here plied again the ill-belated oar; But still more openly to understand, Turn unto me thy mind, and thou shalt gather Some profitable fruit from our delay. Neither Creator nor a creature ever, Son,” he began, “was destitute of love Natural or spiritual; and thou knowest it. The natural was ever without error; But err the other may by evil object, Or by too much, or by too little vigor. While in the first it well directed is, 859 And in the second moderates itself, It cannot be the cause of sinful pleasure; But when to ill it turns, and, with more care Or lesser than it ought, runs after good, ’Gainst the Creator works his own creation. Hence thou mayst comprehend that love must be The seed within yourselves of every virtue, And every act that merits punishment. Now inasmuch as never from the welfare Of its own subject can love turn its sight, From their own hatred all things are secure; And since we cannot think of any being