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, "