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.

If Luni thou regard, and Urbisaglia,
  How they have passed away, and how are passing
  Chiusi and Sinigaglia after them,

To hear how races waste themselves away,
  Will seem to thee no novel thing nor hard,
  Seeing that even cities have an end.