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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 |
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Notes: 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 |
