"But in a farther age shall rise along The banks of Po two greater still than he; The world which smiled on him shall do them wrong Till they are ashes, and repose with me. The first [Ariosto] will make an epoch with his lyre And fill the earth with feats of chivalry: His fancy like a rainbow, and his fire, Like that of Heaven, immortal, and his thought Borne onward with a wing that cannot tire; Pleasure shall, like a butterfly new caught, Flutter her lovely pinions o'er his theme, And Art itself seem into Nature wrought By the transparency of his bright dream."