Upholds their nature merely, but in them
Their energy to save:  for nought, that lies
Within the range of that unerring bow,
But is as level with the destin’d aim,
As ever mark to arrow’s point oppos’d. 
Were it not thus, these heavens, thou dost visit,
Would their effect so work, it would not be
Art, but destruction; and this may not chance,
If th’ intellectual powers, that move these stars,
Fail not, or who, first faulty made them fail. 
Wilt thou this truth more clearly evidenc’d?”

To whom I thus:  “It is enough:  no fear,
I see, lest nature in her part should tire.”

He straight rejoin’d:  “Say, were it worse for man,
If he liv’d not in fellowship on earth?”

“Yea,” answer’d I; “nor here a reason needs.”

“And may that be, if different estates
Grow not of different duties in your life? 
Consult your teacher, and he tells you ‘no."’

Thus did he come, deducing to this point,
And then concluded:  “For this cause behooves,
The roots, from whence your operations come,
Must differ.  Therefore one is Solon born;
Another, Xerxes; and Melchisidec
A third; and he a fourth, whose airy voyage
Cost him his son.  In her circuitous course,
Nature, that is the seal to mortal wax,
Doth well her art, but no distinctions owns
’Twixt one or other household.  Hence befalls
That Esau is so wide of Jacob:  hence
Quirinus of so base a father springs,
He dates from Mars his lineage.  Were it not
That providence celestial overrul’d,
Nature, in generation, must the path
Trac’d by the generator, still pursue
Unswervingly.  Thus place I in thy sight
That, which was late behind thee.  But, in sign
Of more affection for thee, ’t is my will
Thou wear this corollary.  Nature ever
Finding discordant fortune, like all seed
Out of its proper climate, thrives but ill. 
And were the world below content to mark
And work on the foundation nature lays,
It would not lack supply of excellence. 
But ye perversely to religion strain
Him, who was born to gird on him the sword,
And of the fluent phrasemen make your king;
Therefore your steps have wander’d from the paths.”

CANTO IX

After solution of my doubt, thy Charles,
O fair Clemenza, of the treachery spake
That must befall his seed:  but, “Tell it not,”
Said he, “and let the destin’d years come round.” 
Nor may I tell thee more, save that the meed
Of sorrow well-deserv’d shall quit your wrongs.