Ah slavish Italy! thou inn of grief,
Vessel without a pilot in loud storm,
Lady no longer of fair provinces,
But brothel-house impure! this gentle spirit,
Ev’n from the Pleasant sound of his dear land
Was prompt to greet a fellow citizen
With such glad cheer; while now thy living ones
In thee abide not without war; and one
Malicious gnaws another, ay of those
Whom the same wall and the same moat contains,
Seek, wretched one! around thy sea-coasts wide;
Then homeward to thy bosom turn, and mark
If any part of the sweet peace enjoy. 
What boots it, that thy reins Justinian’s hand
Befitted, if thy saddle be unpress’d? 
Nought doth he now but aggravate thy shame. 
Ah people! thou obedient still shouldst live,
And in the saddle let thy Caesar sit,
If well thou marked’st that which God commands.

Look how that beast to felness hath relaps’d
From having lost correction of the spur,
Since to the bridle thou hast set thine hand,
O German Albert! who abandon’st her,
That is grown savage and unmanageable,
When thou should’st clasp her flanks with forked heels. 
Just judgment from the stars fall on thy blood! 
And be it strange and manifest to all! 
Such as may strike thy successor with dread! 
For that thy sire and thou have suffer’d thus,
Through greediness of yonder realms detain’d,
The garden of the empire to run waste. 
Come see the Capulets and Montagues,
The Philippeschi and Monaldi! man
Who car’st for nought! those sunk in grief, and these
With dire suspicion rack’d.  Come, cruel one! 
Come and behold the’ oppression of the nobles,
And mark their injuries:  and thou mayst see. 
What safety Santafiore can supply. 
Come and behold thy Rome, who calls on thee,
Desolate widow! day and night with moans: 
“My Caesar, why dost thou desert my side?”
Come and behold what love among thy people: 
And if no pity touches thee for us,
Come and blush for thine own report.  For me,
If it be lawful, O Almighty Power,
Who wast in earth for our sakes crucified! 
Are thy just eyes turn’d elsewhere? or is this
A preparation in the wond’rous depth
Of thy sage counsel made, for some good end,
Entirely from our reach of thought cut off? 
So are the’ Italian cities all o’erthrong’d
With tyrants, and a great Marcellus made
Of every petty factious villager.

My Florence! thou mayst well remain unmov’d
At this digression, which affects not thee: 
Thanks to thy people, who so wisely speed. 
Many have justice in their heart, that long
Waiteth for counsel to direct the bow,
Or ere it dart unto its aim:  but shine
Have it on their lip’s edge.  Many refuse
To bear the common burdens:  readier thine
Answer uneall’d, and cry, “Behold I stoop!”