O thou our poor nobility of blood, If thou dost make the people glory in thee Down here where our affection languishes, A marvellous thing it ne'er will be to me;
For there where appetite is not perverted, I say in Heaven, of thee I made a boast!
Truly thou art a cloak that quickly shortens, So that unless we piece thee day by day Time goeth round about thee with his shears!
With 'You,' which Rome was first to tolerate, (Wherein her family less perseveres,)
Yet once again my words beginning made; Whence Beatrice, who stood somewhat apart, Smiling, appeared like unto her who coughed At the first failing writ of Guenever.
And I began: "You are my ancestor, You give to me all hardihood to speak, You lift me so that I am more than I.
So many rivulets with gladness fill My mind, that of itself it makes a joy Because it can endure this and not burst.
Then tell me, my beloved root ancestral, Who were your ancestors, and what the years That in your boyhood chronicled themselves?
Tell me about the sheepfold of Saint John, How large it was, and who the people were Within it worthy of the highest seats."
As at the blowing of the winds a coal Quickens to flame, so I beheld that light Become resplendent at my blandishments.
And as unto mine eyes it grew more fair, With voice more sweet and tender, but not in This modern dialect, it said to me:
"From uttering of the 'Ave,' till the birth In which my mother, who is now a saint, Of me was lightened who had been her burden, Unto its Lion had this fire returned Five hundred fifty times and thirty more, To reinflame itself beneath his paw.
My ancestors and I our birthplace had Where first is found the last ward of the city By him who runneth in your annual game.
Suffice it of my elders to hear this;
But who they were, and whence they thither came, Silence is more considerate than speech.
All those who at that time were there between Mars and the Baptist, fit for bearing arms, Were a fifth part of those who now are living;
But the community, that now is mixed With Campi and Certaldo and Figghine, Pure in the lowest artisan was seen.
O how much better 'twere to have as neighbours The folk of whom I speak, and at Galluzzo And at Trespiano have your boundary, Than have them in the town, and bear the stench Of Aguglione's churl, and him of Signa Who has sharp eyes for trickery already.
Had not the folk, which most of all the world Degenerates, been a step-dame unto Caesar, But as a mother to her son benignant, Some who turn Florentines, and trade and discount, Would have gone back again to Simifonte There where their grandsires went about as beggars.
At Montemurlo still would be the Counts, The Cerchi in the parish of Acone, Perhaps in Valdigrieve the Buondelmonti.
Ever the intermingling of the people Has been the source of malady in cities, As in the body food it surfeits on;
And a blind bull more headlong plunges down Than a blind lamb; and very often cuts Better and more a single sword than five.
