while
Theirs and not thine shall be the crimson’d brow
Their course shall so evince their brutishness
T’ have ta’en thy stand apart shall well become thee. 
     “First refuge thou must find, first place of rest,
In the great Lombard’s courtesy, who bears
Upon the ladder perch’d the sacred bird. 
He shall behold thee with such kind regard,
That ’twixt ye two, the contrary to that
Which falls ’twixt other men, the granting shall
Forerun the asking.  With him shalt thou see
That mortal, who was at his birth impress
So strongly from this star, that of his deeds
The nations shall take note.  His unripe age
Yet holds him from observance; for these wheels
Only nine years have compass him about. 
But, ere the Gascon practice on great Harry,
Sparkles of virtue shall shoot forth in him,
In equal scorn of labours and of gold. 
His bounty shall be spread abroad so widely,
As not to let the tongues e’en of his foes
Be idle in its praise.  Look thou to him
And his beneficence:  for he shall cause
Reversal of their lot to many people,
Rich men and beggars interchanging fortunes. 
And thou shalt bear this written in thy soul
Of him, but tell it not; “and things he told
Incredible to those who witness them;
Then added:  “So interpret thou, my son,
What hath been told thee.—­Lo! the ambushment
That a few circling seasons hide for thee! 
Yet envy not thy neighbours:  time extends
Thy span beyond their treason’s chastisement.” 
     Soon, as the saintly spirit, by his silence,
Had shown the web, which I had streteh’d for him
Upon the warp, was woven, I began,
As one, who in perplexity desires
Counsel of other, wise, benign and friendly: 
“My father! well I mark how time spurs on
Toward me, ready to inflict the blow,
Which falls most heavily on him, who most
Abandoned himself.  Therefore ’t is good
I should forecast, that driven from the place
Most dear to me, I may not lose myself
All others by my song.  Down through the world
Of infinite mourning, and along the mount
From whose fair height my lady’s eyes did lift me,
And after through this heav’n from light to light,
Have I learnt that, which if I tell again,
It may with many woefully disrelish;
And, if I am a timid friend to truth,
I fear my life may perish among those,
To whom these days shall be of ancient date.” 
     The brightness, where enclos’d the treasure smil’d,
Which I had found there, first shone glisteningly,
Like to a golden mirror in the sun;
Next answer’d:  “Conscience, dimm’d or by its own
Or other’s shame, will feel thy saying sharp. 
Thou, notwithstanding, all deceit remov’d,
See the whole vision be made manifest. 
And let them wince who have their withers wrung. 
What though, when tasted first, thy voice shall prove
Unwelcome, on digestion it will turn