A troop of spirits, who came beside the pier. 
     They each one ey’d us, as at eventide
One eyes another under a new moon,
And toward us sharpen’d their sight as keen,
As an old tailor at his needle’s eye. 
     Thus narrowly explor’d by all the tribe,
I was agniz’d of one, who by the skirt
Caught me, and cried, “What wonder have we here!”
     And I, when he to me outstretch’d his arm,
Intently fix’d my ken on his parch’d looks,
That although smirch’d with fire, they hinder’d not
But I remember’d him; and towards his face
My hand inclining, answer’d:  “Sir!  Brunetto! 
And art thou here?” He thus to me:  “My son! 
Oh let it not displease thee, if Brunetto
Latini but a little space with thee
Turn back, and leave his fellows to proceed.” 
     I thus to him replied:  “Much as I can,
I thereto pray thee; and if thou be willing,
That I here seat me with thee, I consent;
His leave, with whom I journey, first obtain’d.” 
     “O son!” said he, " whoever of this throng
One instant stops, lies then a hundred years,
No fan to ventilate him, when the fire
Smites sorest.  Pass thou therefore on.  I close
Will at thy garments walk, and then rejoin
My troop, who go mourning their endless doom.” 
     I dar’d not from the path descend to tread
On equal ground with him, but held my head
Bent down, as one who walks in reverent guise. 
     “What chance or destiny,” thus be began,
“Ere the last day conducts thee here below? 
And who is this, that shows to thee the way?”
     “There up aloft,” I answer’d, “in the life
Serene, I wander’d in a valley lost,
Before mine age had to its fullness reach’d. 
But yester-morn I left it:  then once more
Into that vale returning, him I met;
And by this path homeward he leads me back.” 
     “If thou,” he answer’d, “follow but thy star,
Thou canst not miss at last a glorious haven: 
Unless in fairer days my judgment err’d. 
And if my fate so early had not chanc’d,
Seeing the heav’ns thus bounteous to thee, I
Had gladly giv’n thee comfort in thy work. 
But that ungrateful and malignant race,
Who in old times came down from Fesole,
Ay and still smack of their rough mountain-flint,
Will for thy good deeds shew thee enmity. 
Nor wonder; for amongst ill-savour’d crabs
It suits not the sweet fig-tree lay her fruit. 
Old fame reports them in the world for blind,
Covetous, envious, proud.  Look to it well: 
Take heed thou cleanse thee of their ways.  For thee
Thy fortune hath such honour in reserve,
That thou by either party shalt be crav’d
With hunger keen:  but be the fresh herb far
From the goat’s tooth.  The herd of Fesole
May of themselves make litter, not touch the plant,
If any such yet spring on their rank bed,
In which the holy seed revives, transmitted
From those true Romans, who still there remain’d,