Eunoë, it is called; and worketh not If first on either side it be not tasted. This every other savor doth transcend; And notwithstanding slaked so far may be Thy thirst, that I reveal to thee no more, I’ll give thee a corollary still in grace, Nor think my speech will be to thee less dear If it spread out beyond my promise to thee. Those who in ancient times have feigned in song The Age of Gold and its felicity, Dreamed of this place perhaps upon Parnassus. Here was the human race in innocence; Here evermore was Spring, and every fruit; This is the nectar of which each one speaks.” Then backward did I turn me wholly round Unto my Poets, and saw that with a smile 1082 They had been listening to these closing words; Then to the beautiful lady turned mine eyes.
The triumph of the Church.