And on our left descended to the depth,
A narrow strait and perforated close. 
Nor from his side my leader set me down,
Till to his orifice he brought, whose limb
Quiv’ring express’d his pang.  “Whoe’er thou art,
Sad spirit! thus revers’d, and as a stake
Driv’n in the soil!” I in these words began,
“If thou be able, utter forth thy voice.” 
     There stood I like the friar, that doth shrive
A wretch for murder doom’d, who e’en when fix’d,
Calleth him back, whence death awhile delays. 
     He shouted:  “Ha! already standest there? 
Already standest there, O Boniface! 
By many a year the writing play’d me false. 
So early dost thou surfeit with the wealth,
For which thou fearedst not in guile to take
The lovely lady, and then mangle her?”
     I felt as those who, piercing not the drift
Of answer made them, stand as if expos’d
In mockery, nor know what to reply,
When Virgil thus admonish’d:  “Tell him quick,
I am not he, not he, whom thou believ’st.” 
     And I, as was enjoin’d me, straight replied. 
     That heard, the spirit all did wrench his feet,
And sighing next in woeful accent spake: 
“What then of me requirest?” If to know
So much imports thee, who I am, that thou
Hast therefore down the bank descended, learn
That in the mighty mantle I was rob’d,
And of a she-bear was indeed the son,
So eager to advance my whelps, that there
My having in my purse above I stow’d,
And here myself.  Under my head are dragg’d
The rest, my predecessors in the guilt
Of simony.  Stretch’d at their length they lie
Along an opening in the rock.  ’Midst them
I also low shall fall, soon as he comes,
For whom I took thee, when so hastily
I question’d.  But already longer time
Hath pass’d, since my souls kindled, and I thus
Upturn’d have stood, than is his doom to stand
Planted with fiery feet.  For after him,
One yet of deeds more ugly shall arrive,
From forth the west, a shepherd without law,
Fated to cover both his form and mine. 
He a new Jason shall be call’d, of whom
In Maccabees we read; and favour such
As to that priest his king indulgent show’d,
Shall be of France’s monarch shown to him.” 
     I know not if I here too far presum’d,
But in this strain I answer’d:  “Tell me now,
What treasures from St. Peter at the first
Our Lord demanded, when he put the keys
Into his charge?  Surely he ask’d no more
But, Follow me!  Nor Peter nor the rest
Or gold or silver of Matthias took,
When lots were cast upon the forfeit place
Of the condemned soul.  Abide thou then;
Thy punishment of right is merited: 
And look thou well to that ill-gotten coin,
Which against Charles thy hardihood inspir’d. 
If reverence of the keys restrain’d me not,
Which thou in happier time didst hold, I yet
Severer speech might use.  Your avarice