Necessity makes her precipitate, So often cometh who his turn obtains. And this is she who is so crucified Even by those who ought to give her praise, Giving her blame amiss, and bad repute. But she is blissful, and she hears it not; Among the other primal creatures gladsome She turns her sphere, and blissful she rejoices. Let us descend now unto greater woe; Already sinks each star that was ascending 109 When I set out, and loitering is forbidden.” We crossed the circle to the other bank, Near to a fount that boils, and pours itself Along a gully that runs out of it. The water was more sombre far than perse; 110 And we, in company with the dusky waves, Made entrance downward by a path uncouth. A marsh it makes, which has the name of Styx, This tristful brooklet, when it has descended Down to the foot of the malign gray shores. And I, who stood intent upon beholding, Saw people mud-besprent in that lagoon,