Of newness with succession interrupts,
Remembrance there needs none to gather up
Divided thought and images remote
     “So that men, thus at variance with the truth
Dream, though their eyes be open; reckless some
Of error; others well aware they err,
To whom more guilt and shame are justly due. 
Each the known track of sage philosophy
Deserts, and has a byway of his own: 
So much the restless eagerness to shine
And love of singularity prevail. 
Yet this, offensive as it is, provokes
Heav’n’s anger less, than when the book of God
Is forc’d to yield to man’s authority,
Or from its straightness warp’d:  no reck’ning made
What blood the sowing of it in the world
Has cost; what favour for himself he wins,
Who meekly clings to it.  The aim of all
Is how to shine:  e’en they, whose office is
To preach the Gospel, let the gospel sleep,
And pass their own inventions off instead. 
One tells, how at Christ’s suffering the wan moon
Bent back her steps, and shadow’d o’er the sun
With intervenient disk, as she withdrew: 
Another, how the light shrouded itself
Within its tabernacle, and left dark
The Spaniard and the Indian, with the Jew. 
Such fables Florence in her pulpit hears,
Bandied about more frequent, than the names
Of Bindi and of Lapi in her streets. 
The sheep, meanwhile, poor witless ones, return
From pasture, fed with wind:  and what avails
For their excuse, they do not see their harm? 
Christ said not to his first conventicle,
‘Go forth and preach impostures to the world,’
But gave them truth to build on; and the sound
Was mighty on their lips; nor needed they,
Beside the gospel, other spear or shield,
To aid them in their warfare for the faith. 
The preacher now provides himself with store
Of jests and gibes; and, so there be no lack
Of laughter, while he vents them, his big cowl
Distends, and he has won the meed he sought: 
Could but the vulgar catch a glimpse the while
Of that dark bird which nestles in his hood,
They scarce would wait to hear the blessing said. 
Which now the dotards hold in such esteem,
That every counterfeit, who spreads abroad
The hands of holy promise, finds a throng
Of credulous fools beneath.  Saint Anthony
Fattens with this his swine, and others worse
Than swine, who diet at his lazy board,
Paying with unstamp’d metal for their fare. 
     “But (for we far have wander’d) let us seek
The forward path again; so as the way
Be shorten’d with the time.  No mortal tongue
Nor thought of man hath ever reach’d so far,
That of these natures he might count the tribes. 
What Daniel of their thousands hath reveal’d
With finite number infinite conceals. 
The fountain at whose source these drink their beams,
With light supplies them in as many modes,
As there are splendours, that it shines on:  each
According to the virtue it conceives,
Differing in love and sweet affection. 
Look then how lofty and how huge in breadth
The’ eternal might, which, broken and dispers’d
Over such countless mirrors, yet remains
Whole in itself and one, as at the first.”