The shoulders next I mark’d, that ent’ring join’d
The monster’s arm-pits, whose two shorter feet
So lengthen’d, as the other’s dwindling shrunk. 
The feet behind then twisting up became
That part that man conceals, which in the wretch
Was cleft in twain.  While both the shadowy smoke
With a new colour veils, and generates
Th’ excrescent pile on one, peeling it off
From th’ other body, lo! upon his feet
One upright rose, and prone the other fell. 
Not yet their glaring and malignant lamps
Were shifted, though each feature chang’d beneath. 
Of him who stood erect, the mounting face
Retreated towards the temples, and what there
Superfluous matter came, shot out in ears
From the smooth cheeks, the rest, not backward dragg’d,
Of its excess did shape the nose; and swell’d
Into due size protuberant the lips. 
He, on the earth who lay, meanwhile extends
His sharpen’d visage, and draws down the ears
Into the head, as doth the slug his horns. 
His tongue continuous before and apt
For utt’rance, severs; and the other’s fork
Closing unites.  That done the smoke was laid. 
The soul, transform’d into the brute, glides off,
Hissing along the vale, and after him
The other talking sputters; but soon turn’d
His new-grown shoulders on him, and in few
Thus to another spake:  “Along this path
Crawling, as I have done, speed Buoso now!”

So saw I fluctuate in successive change
Th’ unsteady ballast of the seventh hold: 
And here if aught my tongue have swerv’d, events
So strange may be its warrant.  O’er mine eyes
Confusion hung, and on my thoughts amaze.

Yet ’scap’d they not so covertly, but well
I mark’d Sciancato:  he alone it was
Of the three first that came, who chang’d not:  thou,
The other’s fate, Gaville, still dost rue.

CANTO XXVI

Florence exult! for thou so mightily
Hast thriven, that o’er land and sea thy wings
Thou beatest, and thy name spreads over hell! 
Among the plund’rers such the three I found
Thy citizens, whence shame to me thy son,
And no proud honour to thyself redounds.

But if our minds, when dreaming near the dawn,
Are of the truth presageful, thou ere long
Shalt feel what Prato, (not to say the rest)
Would fain might come upon thee; and that chance
Were in good time, if it befell thee now. 
Would so it were, since it must needs befall! 
For as time wears me, I shall grieve the more.

We from the depth departed; and my guide
Remounting scal’d the flinty steps, which late
We downward trac’d, and drew me up the steep. 
Pursuing thus our solitary way
Among the crags and splinters of the rock,
Sped not our feet without the help of hands.

Then sorrow seiz’d me, which e’en now revives,
As my thought turns again to what I saw,
And, more than I am wont, I rein and curb
The powers of nature in me, lest they run
Where Virtue guides not; that if aught of good
My gentle star, or something better gave me,
I envy not myself the precious boon.