One to Capocchio came, and by the nape Seized with its teeth his neck, so that in dragging It made his belly grate the solid bottom. And the Aretine, who trembling had remained, Said to me: “That mad sprite is Gianni Schicchi, And raving goes thus harrying other people.” “O,” said I to him, “so may not the other Set teeth on thee, let it not weary thee To tell us who it is, ere it dart hence.” And he to me: “That is the ancient ghost Of the nefarious Myrrha, who became Beyond all rightful love her father’s lover. She came to sin with him after this manner, By counterfeiting of another’s form; As he who goeth yonder undertook, That he might gain the lady of the herd, To counterfeit in himself Buoso Donati, Making a will and giving it due form.” And after the two maniacs had passed On whom I held mine eye, I turned it back To look upon the other evil-born. I saw one made in fashion of a lute, If he had only had the groin cut off Just at the point at which a man is forked. The heavy dropsy, that so disproportions The limbs with humours, which it ill concocts, That the face corresponds not to the belly, Compelled him so to hold his lips apart As does the hectic, who because of thirst One tow’rds the chin, the other upward turns. “O ye, who without any torment are, And why I know not, in the world of woe,” He said to us, “behold, and be attentive Unto the misery of Master Adam; I had while living much of what I wished, And now, alas! a drop of water crave. The rivulets, that from the verdant hills Of Cassentin descend down into Arno, Making their channels to be cold and moist, Ever before me stand, and not in vain; For far more doth their image dry me up Than the disease which strips my face of flesh. The rigid justice that chastises me Draweth occasion from the place in which I sinned, to put the more my sighs in flight. There is Romena, where I counterfeited The currency imprinted with the Baptist, For which I left my body burned above. But if I here could see the tristful soul Of Guido, or Alessandro, or their brother, For Branda’s fount I would not give the sight. One is within already, if the raving Shades that are going round about speak truth; But what avails it me, whose limbs are tied? If I were only still so light, that in A hundred years I could advance one inch, I had already started on the way, Seeking him out among this squalid folk, Although the circuit be eleven miles, And be not less than half a mile across. For them am I in such a family; They did induce me into coining florins, Which had three carats of impurity.” And I to him: “Who are the two poor wretches That smoke like unto a wet hand in winter, Lying there close upon thy right-hand confines?”