Ma solo un punto fu quel, che ci vinse. 
  Qando leggemmo il disiato riso
    Esser baciato da cotanto amante,
  Questi, che mai da me non sia diviso,
    La bocca mi bacio tutto tremante. 
  Galeotto fu il libro, e chi lo scrisse: 
    Quel giorno piu non vi leggemmo avante. 
  Mentre che l’uno spirito queste disse,
    L’altro piangeva si, che di pietade
  Io venni meno come s’io morisse,
    E caddi, come corpo morto cade.”

Mr. Dayman:—­

  “Then toward them turned again:  ‘Thy racking woe,’
    I said, ’Francesca, wrings from out mine eyes
  The pious drops that sadden as they flow. 
    But tell me, in your hour of honeyed sighs,
  By whom and how love pitying broke the spell,
    And in your doubtful longings made too wise.’ 
  And she to me:  ’No keener pang hath hell,
    Than to recall, amid some deep distress,
  Our happier time:  thy teacher knows it well. 
    Yet if desire so strong thy soul possess
  To trace the root from whence our love was bred,
    His part be mine, who tells and weeps no less. 
  ’T was on a day when we for pastime read
    Of Lancillot, how love snared him to ruin: 
  We were alone, nor knew suspicious dread. 
    Oft on that reading paused our eyes, renewing
  Their glance; and from our cheeks the color started;
    But one sole moment wrought for our undoing: 
  When that we read of lover so kind-hearted
    Kissing the smile so coveted before,
  He that from me shall never more be parted
    Kissed me with lip to lip, trembling all o’er. 
  The broker of our vows, it was the lay,
    And he who wrote—­that day we read no more.’ 
  The other spirit, while the first did say
    These words, so moaned, that with soft remorse
  As death had stricken me, I swooned away,
    And down I fell, heavily as falls a corse.”

Mr. Longfellow:—­

  “Then unto them I turned me, and I spake,
  And I began:  ’Thine agonies, Francesca,
  Sad and compassionate to weeping make me. 
  But tell me, at the time of those sweet sighs,
  By what and in what manner Love conceded
  That you should know your dubious desires?’
  And she to me:  ’There is no greater sorrow
  Than to be mindful of the happy time
  In misery, and that thy Teacher knows. 
  But if to recognize the earliest root
  Of love in us thou hast so great desire,
  I will do even as he who weeps and speaks. 
  One day we reading were for our delight
  Of Launcelot, how Love did him enthrall. 
  Alone we were, and without any fear. 
  Full many a time our eyes together drew
  That reading, and drove the color from our faces;
  But one point was it that o’ercame us. 
  Whenas we read of the much-longed-for smile
  Being by such a noble lover kissed,
  This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,
  Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating. 
  Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it. 
  That day no farther did we read therein.’ 
  And all the while one spirit uttered this,
  The other one did weep so, that, for pity,
  I swooned away as if I had been dying,
  And fell even as a dead body falls.”