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When I finish remembering the gifts of the undefeated inner man, so clear to everyone, so splendid, I fix my mind on his body, as beautiful, as rare. Though I've dwelt upon his spirit, his body is no less welcome to me: our chaste real love would've been a passing shallow thing if passion had been left out. But no matter how upright his life was, how pleasant upon the eyes his presence, no, rather let me say that his virtue was so true, his beauty so vivid, all who saw or lived near him knew what such things are and felt themselves in the golden age. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: From V LXXXIX:89. See also B A1:62:34; R XII:40. Key |
