Charles came to Italy, and for amends A victim made of Conradin, and then Thrust Thomas back to heaven, for amends. A time I see, not very distant now, Which draweth forth another Charles from France, The better to make known both him and his. Unarmed he goes, and only with the lance That Judas jousted with; and that he thrusts So that he makes the paunch of Florence burst. He thence not land, but sin and infamy, Shall gain, so much more grievous to himself As the more light such damage he accounts. The other, now gone forth, ta’en in his ship, See I his daughter sell, and chaffer for her As corsairs do with other female slaves. What more, O Avarice, canst thou do to us, Since thou my blood so to thyself hast drawn, It careth not for its own proper flesh? That less may seem the future ill and past, I see the flower-de-luce Alagna enter, And Christ in his own Vicar captive made. I see him yet another time derided; I see renewed the vinegar and gall, And between living thieves I see him slain. I see the modern Pilate so relentless, This does not sate him, but without decretal He to the temple bears his sordid sails! When, O my Lord! shall I be joyful made By looking on the vengeance which, concealed, Makes sweet thine anger in thy secrecy? What I was saying of that only bride Of the Holy Ghost, and which occasioned thee To turn towards me for some commentary, So long has been ordained to all our prayers As the day lasts; but when the night comes on, Contrary sound we take instead thereof. At that time we repeat Pygmalion, Of whom a traitor, thief, and parricide Made his insatiable desire of gold; And the misery of avaricious Midas, That followed his inordinate demand, At which forevermore one needs but laugh. The foolish Achan each one then records, And how he stole the spoils; so that the wrath Of Joshua still appears to sting him here. Then we accuse Sapphira with her husband, We laud the hoof-beats Heliodorus had, And the whole mount in infamy encircles Polymnestor who murdered Polydorus. Here finally is cried: ‘O Crassus, tell us, For thou dost know, what is the taste of gold?’ Sometimes we speak, one loud, another low, According to desire of speech, that spurs us To greater now and now to lesser pace. But in the good that here by day is talked of, Erewhile alone I was not; yet near by No other person lifted up his voice.” From him already we departed were, And made endeavour to o’ercome the road As much as was permitted to our power, When I perceived, like something that is falling, The mountain tremble, whence a chill seized on me, As seizes him who to his death is going. Certes so violently shook not Delos, Before Latona made her nest therein To give birth to the two eyes of the heaven.