With him of Arca saw, and Soldanieri
And Ardinghi, and Bostichi.  At the poop,
That now is laden with new felony,
So cumb’rous it may speedily sink the bark,
The Ravignani sat, of whom is sprung
The County Guido, and whoso hath since
His title from the fam’d Bellincione ta’en. 
Fair governance was yet an art well priz’d
By him of Pressa:  Galigaio show’d
The gilded hilt and pommel, in his house. 
The column, cloth’d with verrey, still was seen
Unshaken:  the Sacchetti still were great,
Giouchi, Sifanti, Galli and Barucci,
With them who blush to hear the bushel nam’d. 
Of the Calfucci still the branchy trunk
Was in its strength:  and to the curule chairs
Sizii and Arigucci yet were drawn. 
How mighty them I saw, whom since their pride
Hath undone! and in all her goodly deeds
Florence was by the bullets of bright gold
O’erflourish’d.  Such the sires of those, who now,
As surely as your church is vacant, flock
Into her consistory, and at leisure
There stall them and grow fat.  The o’erweening brood,
That plays the dragon after him that flees,
But unto such, as turn and show the tooth,
Ay or the purse, is gentle as a lamb,
Was on its rise, but yet so slight esteem’d,
That Ubertino of Donati grudg’d
His father-in-law should yoke him to its tribe. 
Already Caponsacco had descended
Into the mart from Fesole:  and Giuda
And Infangato were good citizens. 
A thing incredible I tell, tho’ true: 
The gateway, named from those of Pera, led
Into the narrow circuit of your walls. 
Each one, who bears the sightly quarterings
Of the great Baron (he whose name and worth
The festival of Thomas still revives)
His knighthood and his privilege retain’d;
Albeit one, who borders them With gold,
This day is mingled with the common herd. 
In Borgo yet the Gualterotti dwelt,
And Importuni:  well for its repose
Had it still lack’d of newer neighbourhood. 
The house, from whence your tears have had their spring,
Through the just anger that hath murder’d ye
And put a period to your gladsome days,
Was honour’d, it, and those consorted with it. 
O Buondelmonte! what ill counseling
Prevail’d on thee to break the plighted bond
Many, who now are weeping, would rejoice,
Had God to Ema giv’n thee, the first time
Thou near our city cam’st.  But so was doom’d: 
On that maim’d stone set up to guard the bridge,
At thy last peace, the victim, Florence! fell. 
With these and others like to them, I saw
Florence in such assur’d tranquility,
She had no cause at which to grieve:  with these
Saw her so glorious and so just, that ne’er
The lily from the lance had hung reverse,
Or through division been with vermeil dyed.”

CANTO XVII