Nor grudge myself the cause of this my lot,
Which haply vulgar hearts can scarce conceive. 
     “This jewel, that is next me in our heaven,
Lustrous and costly, great renown hath left,
And not to perish, ere these hundred years
Five times absolve their round.  Consider thou,
If to excel be worthy man’s endeavour,
When such life may attend the first.  Yet they
Care not for this, the crowd that now are girt
By Adice and Tagliamento, still
Impenitent, tho’ scourg’d.  The hour is near,
When for their stubbornness at Padua’s marsh
The water shall be chang’d, that laves Vicena
And where Cagnano meets with Sile, one
Lords it, and bears his head aloft, for whom
The web is now a-warping.  Feltro too
Shall sorrow for its godless shepherd’s fault,
Of so deep stain, that never, for the like,
Was Malta’s bar unclos’d.  Too large should be
The skillet, that would hold Ferrara’s blood,
And wearied he, who ounce by ounce would weight it,
The which this priest, in show of party-zeal,
Courteous will give; nor will the gift ill suit
The country’s custom.  We descry above,
Mirrors, ye call them thrones, from which to us
Reflected shine the judgments of our God: 
Whence these our sayings we avouch for good.” 
     She ended, and appear’d on other thoughts
Intent, re-ent’ring on the wheel she late
Had left.  That other joyance meanwhile wax’d
A thing to marvel at, in splendour glowing,
Like choicest ruby stricken by the sun,
For, in that upper clime, effulgence comes
Of gladness, as here laughter:  and below,
As the mind saddens, murkier grows the shade. 
     “God seeth all:  and in him is thy sight,”
Said I, “blest Spirit!  Therefore will of his
Cannot to thee be dark.  Why then delays
Thy voice to satisfy my wish untold,
That voice which joins the inexpressive song,
Pastime of heav’n, the which those ardours sing,
That cowl them with six shadowing wings outspread? 
I would not wait thy asking, wert thou known
To me, as thoroughly I to thee am known.’’
     He forthwith answ’ring, thus his words began: 
“The valley’ of waters, widest next to that
Which doth the earth engarland, shapes its course,
Between discordant shores, against the sun
Inward so far, it makes meridian there,
Where was before th’ horizon.  Of that vale
Dwelt I upon the shore, ’twixt Ebro’s stream
And Macra’s, that divides with passage brief
Genoan bounds from Tuscan.  East and west
Are nearly one to Begga and my land,
Whose haven erst was with its own blood warm. 
Who knew my name were wont to call me Folco: 
And I did bear impression of this heav’n,
That now bears mine:  for not with fiercer flame
Glow’d Belus’ daughter, injuring alike
Sichaeus and Creusa, than did I,
Long as it suited the unripen’d down
That fledg’d my cheek:  nor she of Rhodope,