Why, Pampinea, Lauretta, why?” I said,
“Since many souls that bore the self-same stain
Tread the last ledge of Purgatory mount,
And trust, made pure, sweet Paradise to gain,
Where sings the grove, where flows the twofold fount.
Those, angels aid on fair green rustling wings;
Why then are these thus held to hard account?”
“Not such, O questioner, was the sin that brings
Us hither; but on earth so weak a part
We chose, that now no part in heavenly things