Yet I am stuff’d with moisture.  Thou art parch’d,
Pains rack thy head, no urging would’st thou need
To make thee lap Narcissus’ mirror up.” 
     I was all fix’d to listen, when my guide
Admonish’d:  “Now beware:  a little more. 
And I do quarrel with thee.”  I perceiv’d
How angrily he spake, and towards him turn’d
With shame so poignant, as remember’d yet
Confounds me.  As a man that dreams of harm
Befall’n him, dreaming wishes it a dream,
And that which is, desires as if it were not,
Such then was I, who wanting power to speak
Wish’d to excuse myself, and all the while
Excus’d me, though unweeting that I did. 
     “More grievous fault than thine has been, less shame,”
My master cried, “might expiate.  Therefore cast
All sorrow from thy soul; and if again
Chance bring thee, where like conference is held,
Think I am ever at thy side.  To hear
Such wrangling is a joy for vulgar minds.”

CANTO XXXI

The very tongue, whose keen reproof before
Had wounded me, that either cheek was stain’d,
Now minister’d my cure.  So have I heard,
Achilles and his father’s javelin caus’d
Pain first, and then the boon of health restor’d. 
     Turning our back upon the vale of woe,
W cross’d th’ encircled mound in silence.  There
Was twilight dim, that far long the gloom
Mine eye advanc’d not:  but I heard a horn
Sounded aloud.  The peal it blew had made
The thunder feeble.  Following its course
The adverse way, my strained eyes were bent
On that one spot.  So terrible a blast
Orlando blew not, when that dismal rout
O’erthrew the host of Charlemagne, and quench’d
His saintly warfare.  Thitherward not long
My head was rais’d, when many lofty towers
Methought I spied.  “Master,” said I, “what land
Is this?” He answer’d straight:  “Too long a space
Of intervening darkness has thine eye
To traverse:  thou hast therefore widely err’d
In thy imagining.  Thither arriv’d
Thou well shalt see, how distance can delude
The sense.  A little therefore urge thee on.” 
     Then tenderly he caught me by the hand;
“Yet know,” said he, “ere farther we advance,
That it less strange may seem, these are not towers,
But giants.  In the pit they stand immers’d,
Each from his navel downward, round the bank.” 
     As when a fog disperseth gradually,
Our vision traces what the mist involves
Condens’d in air; so piercing through the gross
And gloomy atmosphere, as more and more
We near’d toward the brink, mine error fled,
And fear came o’er me.  As with circling round
Of turrets, Montereggion crowns his walls,
E’en thus the shore, encompassing th’ abyss,
Was turreted with giants, half their length
Uprearing, horrible, whom Jove from heav’n
Yet threatens, when his mutt’ring thunder rolls.