The twelve wicked tyrants also were in,
And all kinds of goodly doctrine and law;
Saint Peter with his scourge you saw,
With the world’s ways dissatisfied,
And by our Lord with power supplied. 
Her train and dress, behind and before,
And e’en the seams, were painted o’er
With tales of worldly virtue and crime.—­
Our master view’d all this for a time;
The sight right gladly he survey’d,
So useful for him in his trade,
Whence he was able to procure
Example good and precept sure,
Recounting all with truthful care,
As though he had been present there. 
His spirit seem’d from earth to fly,
He ne’er had turned away his eye,
Did he not just behind him hear
A rattle of bells approaching near. 
And now a fool doth catch his eye,
With goat and ape’s leap drawing nigh
A merry interlude preparing
With fooleries and jests unsparing. 
Behind him, in a line drawn out,
He dragg’d all fools, the lean and stout,
The great and little, the empty and full,
All too witty, and all too dull,
A lash he flourish’d overhead,
As though a dance of apes he led,
Abusing them with bitterness,
As though his wrath would ne’er grow less.

While on this sight our master gazed,
His head was growing well-nigh crazed: 
What words for all could he e’er find,
Could such a medley be combined? 
Could he continue with delight
For evermore to sing and write? 
When lo, from out a cloud’s dark bed
In at the upper window sped
The Muse, in all her majesty,
As fair as our loved maids we see. 
With clearness she around him threw
Her truth, that ever stronger grew.

“I, to ordain thee come,” she spake: 
“So prosper, and my blessing take! 
The holy fire that slumb’ring lies
Within thee, in bright flames shall rise;
Yet that thine ever-restless life
May still with kindly strength be rife,
I, for thine inward spirit’s calm. 
Have granted nourishment and balm,
That rapture may thy soul imbue,
Like some fair blossom bathed in dew.”—­
Behind his house then secretly
Outside the doorway pointed she,
Where, in a shady garden-nook,
A beauteous maid with downcast look
Was sitting where a stream was flowing,
With elder bushes near it growing,
She sat beneath an apple tree,
And nought around her seem’d to see. 
Her lap was full of roses fair,
Which in a wreath she twined with care. 
And, with them, leaves and blossoms blended: 
For whom was that sweet wreath intended? 
Thus sat she, modest and retired,
Her bosom throbb’d, with hope inspired;
Such deep forebodings fill’d her mind,
No room for wishing could she find,
And with the thoughts that o’er it flew,
Perchance a sigh was mingled too.