I am told you have spent the vigor of
your life looking for a stone which through art
appears to transmute metals into gold?
A fool's labor. That you look to silver
stirred with bits of iron in a flaming
crucible to gain riches which now this
idol and now that allots to the world,
to restore your long-lost integrity?
Flee to Christ. The lead at the bottom of
your soul, the dregs of all you've done wrong, His
grace, a true rock, will transform into
eternal wealth. Only His fire melts
the congealed ice round your heart--breathe it in.
This is real gold, turn here for paradise.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V CCVII:36. See also B S1:145:157; MSs V2 & Ve2; Valgrisi 146. T an unnamed alchemist. The apposite text is Chaucer' s "Canon's Yeoman's Tale" from The Canterbury Tales. Key