“Now even thee, whose tongue hath never lied,
Nor can, thy softened mood hath turned aside
To utter feignèd speech. Thou askest, King,
The maiden’s lineage!—thou to whom everything
Is known, all issues whereto all things tend,
All paths that lead thereto through all the world:
How many leaves earth up to light doth send
In spring, the number of the sand-grains hurled
Down seas and streams when waves wind-driven rise,
And what shall come to pass and whence—thine eyes
See clearly. Yet, if I must match me against the wise,