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twg_000000029800 | in disdain, Sith in thy pride so fair a hope is slain. So in thyself thyself art made away; A mischief worse than civil home-bred strife, Or theirs whose desperate hands themselves do slay, Or butcher sire that reeves his son of life. Foul cankring rust the hidden treasure frets, But gold thats put to use more gold begets. Nay | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029801 | then, quoth Adon, you will fall again Into your idle over-handled theme; The kiss I gave you is bestowd in vain, And all in vain you strive against the stream; For by this black-facd night, desires foul nurse, Your treatise makes me like you worse and worse. If love have lent you twenty thousand tongues, And every tongue more moving | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029802 | than your own, Bewitching like the wanton mermaids songs, Yet from mine ear the tempting tune is blown; For know, my heart stands armed in mine ear, And will not let a false sound enter there. Lest the deceiving harmony should run Into the quiet closure of my breast, And then my little heart were quite undone, In his bedchamber | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029803 | to be barrd of rest. No, lady, no; my heart longs not to groan, But soundly sleeps, while now it sleeps alone. What have you urgd that I cannot reprove? The path is smooth that leadeth on to danger; I hate not love, but your device in love That lends embracements unto every stranger. You do it for increase: O | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029804 | strange excuse! When reason is the bawd to lusts abuse. Call it not, love, for love to heaven is fled, Since sweating lust on earth usurpd his name; Under whose simple semblance he hath fed Upon fresh beauty, blotting it with blame; Which the hot tyrant stains and soon bereaves, As caterpillars do the tender leaves. Love comforteth like sunshine | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029805 | after rain, But lusts effect is tempest after sun; Loves gentle spring doth always fresh remain, Lusts winter comes ere summer half be done. Love surfeits not, lust like a glutton dies; Love is all truth, lust full of forged lies. More I could tell, but more I dare not say; The text is old, the orator too green. Therefore, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029806 | in sadness, now I will away; My face is full of shame, my heart of teen, Mine ears, that to your wanton talk attended Do burn themselves for having so offended. With this he breaketh from the sweet embrace Of those fair arms which bound him to her breast, And homeward through the dark laund runs apace; Leaves love upon | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029807 | her back deeply distressd. Look how a bright star shooteth from the sky, So glides he in the night from Venus eye. Which after him she darts, as one on shore Gazing upon a late embarked friend, Till the wild waves will have him seen no more, Whose ridges with the meeting clouds contend: So did the merciless and pitchy | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029808 | night Fold in the object that did feed her sight. Whereat amazd, as one that unaware Hath droppd a precious jewel in the flood, Or stonishd as night-wanderers often are, Their light blown out in some mistrustful wood; Even so confounded in the dark she lay, Having lost the fair discovery of her way. And now she beats her heart, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029809 | whereat it groans, That all the neighbour caves, as seeming troubled, Make verbal repetition of her moans; Passion on passion deeply is redoubled: Ay me! she cries, and twenty times, Woe, woe! And twenty echoes twenty times cry so. She marking them, begins a wailing note, And sings extemporally a woeful ditty; How love makes young men thrall, and old | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029810 | men dote, How love is wise in folly foolish witty: Her heavy anthem still concludes in woe, And still the choir of echoes answer so. Her song was tedious, and outwore the night, For lovers hours are long, though seeming short, If pleasd themselves, others they think, delight In such like circumstance, with such like sport: Their copious stories oftentimes | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029811 | begun, End without audience, and are never done. For who hath she to spend the night withal, But idle sounds resembling parasites; Like shrill-tongud tapsters answering every call, Soothing the humour of fantastic wits? She says, Tis so: they answer all, Tis so; And would say after her, if she said No. Lo here the gentle lark, weary of rest, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029812 | From his moist cabinet mounts up on high, And wakes the morning, from whose silver breast The sun ariseth in his majesty; Who doth the world so gloriously behold, That cedar tops and hills seem burnishd gold. Venus salutes him with this fair good morrow: Oh thou clear god, and patron of all light, From whom each lamp and shining | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029813 | star doth borrow The beauteous influence that makes him bright, There lives a son that suckd an earthly mother, May lend thee light, as thou dost lend to other. This said, she hasteth to a myrtle grove, Musing the morning is so much oerworn, And yet she hears no tidings of her love; She hearkens for his hounds and for | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029814 | his horn. Anon she hears them chant it lustily, And all in haste she coasteth to the cry. And as she runs, the bushes in the way Some catch her by the neck, some kiss her face, Some twine about her thigh to make her stay: She wildly breaketh from their strict embrace, Like a milch doe, whose swelling dugs | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029815 | do ache, Hasting to feed her fawn hid in some brake. By this she hears the hounds are at a bay, Whereat she starts like one that spies an adder Wreathd up in fatal folds just in his way, The fear whereof doth make him shake and shudder; Even so the timorous yelping of the hounds Appals her senses, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029816 | her spirit confounds. For now she knows it is no gentle chase, But the blunt boar, rough bear, or lion proud, Because the cry remaineth in one place, Where fearfully the dogs exclaim aloud, Finding their enemy to be so curst, They all strain courtsy who shall cope him first. This dismal cry rings sadly in her ear, Through which | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029817 | it enters to surprise her heart; Who overcome by doubt and bloodless fear, With cold-pale weakness numbs each feeling part; Like soldiers when their captain once doth yield, They basely fly and dare not stay the field. Thus stands she in a trembling ecstasy, Till cheering up her senses sore dismayd, She tells them tis a causeless fantasy, And childish | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029818 | error, that they are afraid; Bids them leave quaking, bids them fear no more: And with that word, she spied the hunted boar. Whose frothy mouth bepainted all with red, Like milk and blood being mingled both together, A second fear through all her sinews spread, Which madly hurries her she knows not whither: This way she runs, and now | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029819 | she will no further, But back retires, to rate the boar for murther. A thousand spleens bear her a thousand ways, She treads the path that she untreads again; Her more than haste is mated with delays, Like the proceedings of a drunken brain, Full of respects, yet naught at all respecting, In hand with all things, naught at all | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029820 | effecting. Here kenneld in a brake she finds a hound, And asks the weary caitiff for his master, And there another licking of his wound, Gainst venomd sores the only sovereign plaster. And here she meets another sadly scowling, To whom she speaks, and he replies with howling. When he hath ceasd his ill-resounding noise, Another flap-mouthd mourner, black and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029821 | grim, Against the welkin volleys out his voice; Another and another answer him, Clapping their proud tails to the ground below, Shaking their scratchd ears, bleeding as they go. Look how the worlds poor people are amazed At apparitions, signs, and prodigies, Whereon with fearful eyes they long have gazed, Infusing them with dreadful prophecies; So she at these sad | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029822 | sighs draws up her breath, And sighing it again, exclaims on death. Hard-favourd tyrant, ugly, meagre, lean, Hateful divorce of love, thus chides she death, Grim-grinning ghost, earths worm, what dost thou mean? To stifle beauty and to steal his breath, Who when he livd, his breath and beauty set Gloss on the rose, smell to the violet. If he | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029823 | be dead, O no, it cannot be, Seeing his beauty, thou shouldst strike at it, O yes, it may, thou hast no eyes to see, But hatefully at random dost thou hit. Thy mark is feeble age, but thy false dart Mistakes that aim, and cleaves an infants heart. Hadst thou but bid beware, then he had spoke, And hearing | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029824 | him, thy power had lost his power. The destinies will curse thee for this stroke; They bid thee crop a weed, thou pluckst a flower. Loves golden arrow at him should have fled, And not deaths ebon dart to strike him dead. Dost thou drink tears, that thou provokst such weeping? What may a heavy groan advantage thee? Why hast | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029825 | thou cast into eternal sleeping Those eyes that taught all other eyes to see? Now nature cares not for thy mortal vigour, Since her best work is ruind with thy rigour. Here overcome, as one full of despair, She vaild her eyelids, who like sluices stoppd The crystal tide that from her two cheeks fair In the sweet channel of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029826 | her bosom droppd But through the flood-gates breaks the silver rain, And with his strong course opens them again. O how her eyes and tears did lend and borrow; Her eyes seen in the tears, tears in her eye; Both crystals, where they viewd each others sorrow, Sorrow that friendly sighs sought still to dry; But like a stormy day, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029827 | now wind, now rain, Sighs dry her cheeks, tears make them wet again. Variable passions throng her constant woe, As striving who should best become her grief; All entertaind, each passion labours so, That every present sorrow seemeth chief, But none is best, then join they all together, Like many clouds consulting for foul weather. By this, far off she | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029828 | hears some huntsman holla; A nurses song neer pleasd her babe so well: The dire imagination she did follow This sound of hope doth labour to expel; For now reviving joy bids her rejoice, And flatters her it is Adonis voice. Whereat her tears began to turn their tide, Being prisond in her eye, like pearls in glass; Yet sometimes | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029829 | falls an orient drop beside, Which her cheek melts, as scorning it should pass To wash the foul face of the sluttish ground, Who is but drunken when she seemeth drownd. O hard-believing love, how strange it seems Not to believe, and yet too credulous; Thy weal and woe are both of them extremes; Despair and hope make thee ridiculous, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029830 | The one doth flatter thee in thoughts unlikely, In likely thoughts the other kills thee quickly. Now she unweaves the web that she hath wrought, Adonis lives, and death is not to blame; It was not she that calld him all to naught; Now she adds honours to his hateful name. She clepes him king of graves, and grave for | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029831 | kings, Imperious supreme of all mortal things. No, no, quoth she, sweet death, I did but jest; Yet pardon me, I felt a kind of fear Whenas I met the boar, that bloody beast, Which knows no pity, but is still severe; Then, gentle shadow,truth I must confess I raild on thee, fearing my loves decease. Tis not my fault, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029832 | the boar provokd my tongue; Be wreakd on him, invisible commander; Tis he, foul creature, that hath done thee wrong; I did but act, hes author of my slander. Grief hath two tongues, and never woman yet, Could rule them both, without ten womens wit. Thus hoping that Adonis is alive, Her rash suspect she doth extenuate; And that his | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029833 | beauty may the better thrive, With death she humbly doth insinuate; Tells him of trophies, statues, tombs and stories His victories, his triumphs and his glories. O love! quoth she, how much a fool was I, To be of such a weak and silly mind, To wail his death who lives, and must not die Till mutual overthrow of mortal | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029834 | kind; For he being dead, with him is beauty slain, And beauty dead, black Chaos comes again. Fie, fie, fond love, thou art as full of fear As one with treasure laden, hemmd with thieves, Trifles unwitnessed with eye or ear, Thy coward heart with false bethinking grieves. Even at this word she hears a merry horn, Whereat she leaps | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029835 | that was but late forlorn. As falcon to the lure, away she flies; The grass stoops not, she treads on it so light, And in her haste unfortunately spies The foul boars conquest on her fair delight; Which seen, her eyes, as murderd with the view, Like stars ashamd of day, themselves withdrew. Or as the snail, whose tender horns | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029836 | being hit, Shrinks backwards in his shelly cave with pain, And there all smotherd up, in shade doth sit, Long after fearing to creep forth again: So at his bloody view her eyes are fled Into the deep dark cabins of her head. Where they resign their office and their light To the disposing of her troubled brain, Who bids | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029837 | them still consort with ugly night, And never wound the heart with looks again; Who like a king perplexed in his throne, By their suggestion gives a deadly groan. Whereat each tributary subject quakes, As when the wind imprisond in the ground, Struggling for passage, earths foundation shakes, Which with cold terror doth mens minds confound. This mutiny each part | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029838 | doth so surprise That from their dark beds once more leap her eyes. And being opend, threw unwilling light Upon the wide wound that the boar had trenchd In his soft flank, whose wonted lily white With purple tears that his wound wept, was drenchd. No flower was nigh, no grass, herb, leaf or weed, But stole his blood and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029839 | seemd with him to bleed. This solemn sympathy poor Venus noteth, Over one shoulder doth she hang her head, Dumbly she passions, franticly she doteth; She thinks he could not die, he is not dead: Her voice is stoppd, her joints forget to bow, Her eyes are mad, that they have wept till now. Upon his hurt she looks so | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029840 | steadfastly, That her sight dazzling makes the wound seem three; And then she reprehends her mangling eye, That makes more gashes, where no breach should be: His face seems twain, each several limb is doubled, For oft the eye mistakes, the brain being troubled. My tongue cannot express my grief for one, And yet, quoth she, behold two Adons dead! | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029841 | My sighs are blown away, my salt tears gone, Mine eyes are turnd to fire, my heart to lead: Heavy hearts lead, melt at mine eyes red fire! So shall I die by drops of hot desire. Alas poor world, what treasure hast thou lost! What face remains alive thats worth the viewing? Whose tongue is music now? what canst | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029842 | thou boast Of things long since, or anything ensuing? The flowers are sweet, their colours fresh and trim, But true sweet beauty livd and died with him. Bonnet nor veil henceforth no creature wear! Nor sun nor wind will ever strive to kiss you: Having no fair to lose, you need not fear; The sun doth scorn you, and the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029843 | wind doth hiss you. But when Adonis livd, sun and sharp air Lurkd like two thieves, to rob him of his fair. And therefore would he put his bonnet on, Under whose brim the gaudy sun would peep; The wind would blow it off, and being gone, Play with his locks; then would Adonis weep; And straight, in pity of | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029844 | his tender years, They both would strive who first should dry his tears. To see his face the lion walkd along Behind some hedge, because he would not fear him; To recreate himself when he hath sung, The tiger would be tame and gently hear him. If he had spoke, the wolf would leave his prey, And never fright the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029845 | silly lamb that day. When he beheld his shadow in the brook, The fishes spread on it their golden gills; When he was by, the birds such pleasure took, That some would sing, some other in their bills Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries, He fed them with his sight, they him with berries. But this foul, grim, and | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029846 | urchin-snouted boar, Whose downward eye still looketh for a grave, Neer saw the beauteous livery that he wore; Witness the entertainment that he gave. If he did see his face, why then I know He thought to kiss him, and hath killd him so. Tis true, tis true; thus was Adonis slain: He ran upon the boar with his sharp | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029847 | spear, Who did not whet his teeth at him again, But by a kiss thought to persuade him there; And nuzzling in his flank, the loving swine Sheathd unaware the tusk in his soft groin. Had I been toothd like him, I must confess, With kissing him I should have killd him first; But he is dead, and never did | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029848 | he bless My youth with his; the more am I accurst. With this she falleth in the place she stood, And stains her face with his congealed blood. She looks upon his lips, and they are pale; She takes him by the hand, and that is cold, She whispers in his ears a heavy tale, As if they heard the | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029849 | woeful words she told; She lifts the coffer-lids that close his eyes, Where lo, two lamps burnt out in darkness lies. Two glasses where herself herself beheld A thousand times, and now no more reflect; Their virtue lost, wherein they late excelld, And every beauty robbd of his effect. Wonder of time, quoth she, this is my spite, That thou | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029850 | being dead, the day should yet be light. Since thou art dead, lo here I prophesy, Sorrow on love hereafter shall attend: It shall be waited on with jealousy, Find sweet beginning, but unsavoury end; Neer settled equally, but high or low, That all loves pleasure shall not match his woe. It shall be fickle, false and full of fraud, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029851 | Bud, and be blasted in a breathing while; The bottom poison, and the top oerstrawd With sweets that shall the truest sight beguile. The strongest body shall it make most weak, Strike the wise dumb, and teach the fool to speak. It shall be sparing, and too full of riot, Teaching decrepit age to tread the measures; The staring ruffian | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029852 | shall it keep in quiet, Pluck down the rich, enrich the poor with treasures; It shall be raging mad, and silly mild, Make the young old, the old become a child. It shall suspect where is no cause of fear, It shall not fear where it should most mistrust; It shall be merciful, and too severe, And most deceiving when | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029853 | it seems most just; Perverse it shall be, where it shows most toward, Put fear to valour, courage to the coward. It shall be cause of war and dire events, And set dissension twixt the son and sire; Subject and servile to all discontents, As dry combustious matter is to fire, Sith in his prime death doth my love destroy, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029854 | They that love best their love shall not enjoy. By this the boy that by her side lay killd Was melted like a vapour from her sight, And in his blood that on the ground lay spilld, A purple flower sprung up, chequerd with white, Resembling well his pale cheeks, and the blood Which in round drops upon their whiteness | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029855 | stood. She bows her head, the new-sprung flower to smell, Comparing it to her Adonis breath; And says within her bosom it shall dwell, Since he himself is reft from her by death; She drops the stalk, and in the breach appears Green-dropping sap, which she compares to tears. Poor flower, quoth she, this was thy fathers guise, Sweet issue | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029856 | of a more sweet-smelling sire, For every little grief to wet his eyes, To grow unto himself was his desire, And so tis thine; but know, it is as good To wither in my breast as in his blood. Here was thy fathers bed, here in my breast; Thou art the next of blood, and tis thy right: Lo in | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029857 | this hollow cradle take thy rest, My throbbing heart shall rock thee day and night: There shall not be one minute in an hour Wherein I will not kiss my sweet loves flower. Thus weary of the world, away she hies, And yokes her silver doves; by whose swift aid Their mistress mounted through the empty skies, In her light | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029858 | LA DIVINA COMMEDIA di Dante Alighieri Contents INFERNO Canto I. Canto II. Canto III. Canto IV. Canto V. Canto VI. Canto VII. Canto VIII. Canto IX. Canto X. Canto XI. Canto XII. Canto XIII. Canto XIV. Canto XV. Canto XVI. Canto XVII. Canto XVIII. Canto XIX. Canto XX. Canto XXI. Canto XXII. Canto XXIII. Canto XXIV. Canto XXV. Canto XXVI. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029859 | Canto XXVII. Canto XXVIII. Canto XXIX. Canto XXX. Canto XXXI. Canto XXXII. Canto XXXIII. Canto XXXIV. PURGATORIO Canto I. Canto II. Canto III. Canto IV. Canto V. Canto VI. Canto VII. Canto VIII. Canto IX. Canto X. Canto XI. Canto XII. Canto XIII. Canto XIV. Canto XV. Canto XVI. Canto XVII. Canto XVIII. Canto XIX. Canto XX. Canto XXI. Canto | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029860 | XXII. Canto XXIII. Canto XXIV. Canto XXV. Canto XXVI. Canto XXVII. Canto XXVIII. Canto XXIX. Canto XXX. Canto XXXI. Canto XXXII. Canto XXXIII. PARADISO Canto I. Canto II. Canto III. Canto IV. Canto V. Canto VI. Canto VII. Canto VIII. Canto IX. Canto X. Canto XI. Canto XII. Canto XIII. Canto XIV. Canto XV. Canto XVI. Canto XVII. Canto XVIII. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029861 | Canto XIX. Canto XX. Canto XXI. Canto XXII. Canto XXIII. Canto XXIV. Canto XXV. Canto XXVI. Canto XXVII. Canto XXVIII. Canto XXIX. Canto XXX. Canto XXXI. Canto XXXII. Canto XXXIII. INFERNO Inferno Canto I Nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita mi ritrovai per una selva oscura, ch la diritta via era smarrita. Ahi quanto a dir qual era cosa | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029862 | dura esta selva selvaggia e aspra e forte che nel pensier rinova la paura! Tant amara che poco pi morte; ma per trattar del ben chi vi trovai, dir de laltre cose chi vho scorte. Io non so ben ridir com i vintrai, tant era pien di sonno a quel punto che la verace via abbandonai. Ma poi chi fui | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029863 | al pi dun colle giunto, l dove terminava quella valle che mavea di paura il cor compunto, guardai in alto e vidi le sue spalle vestite gi de raggi del pianeta che mena dritto altrui per ogne calle. Allor fu la paura un poco queta, che nel lago del cor mera durata la notte chi passai con tanta pieta. E | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029864 | come quei che con lena affannata, uscito fuor del pelago a la riva, si volge a lacqua perigliosa e guata, cos lanimo mio, chancor fuggiva, si volse a retro a rimirar lo passo che non lasci gi mai persona viva. Poi chi posato un poco il corpo lasso, ripresi via per la piaggia diserta, s che l pi fermo sempre | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029865 | era l pi basso. Ed ecco, quasi al cominciar de lerta, una lonza leggera e presta molto, che di pel macolato era coverta; e non mi si partia dinanzi al volto, anzi mpediva tanto il mio cammino, chi fui per ritornar pi volte vlto. Temp era dal principio del mattino, e l sol montava n s con quelle stelle cheran | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029866 | con lui quando lamor divino mosse di prima quelle cose belle; s cha bene sperar mera cagione di quella fiera a la gaetta pelle lora del tempo e la dolce stagione; ma non s che paura non mi desse la vista che mapparve dun leone. Questi parea che contra me venisse con la test alta e con rabbiosa fame, s | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029867 | che parea che laere ne tremesse. Ed una lupa, che di tutte brame sembiava carca ne la sua magrezza, e molte genti f gi viver grame, questa mi porse tanto di gravezza con la paura chuscia di sua vista, chio perdei la speranza de laltezza. E qual quei che volontieri acquista, e giugne l tempo che perder lo face, che | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029868 | n tutti suoi pensier piange e sattrista; tal mi fece la bestia sanza pace, che, venendomi ncontro, a poco a poco mi ripigneva l dove l sol tace. Mentre chi rovinava in basso loco, dinanzi a li occhi mi si fu offerto chi per lungo silenzio parea fioco. Quando vidi costui nel gran diserto, Miserere di me, gridai a lui, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029869 | qual che tu sii, od ombra od omo certo!. Rispuosemi: Non omo, omo gi fui, e li parenti miei furon lombardi, mantoani per patra ambedui. Nacqui sub Iulio, ancor che fosse tardi, e vissi a Roma sotto l buono Augusto nel tempo de li di falsi e bugiardi. Poeta fui, e cantai di quel giusto figliuol dAnchise che venne di | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029870 | Troia, poi che l superbo Iln fu combusto. Ma tu perch ritorni a tanta noia? perch non sali il dilettoso monte ch principio e cagion di tutta gioia?. Or se tu quel Virgilio e quella fonte che spandi di parlar s largo fiume?, rispuos io lui con vergognosa fronte. O de li altri poeti onore e lume, vagliami l lungo | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029871 | studio e l grande amore che mha fatto cercar lo tuo volume. Tu se lo mio maestro e l mio autore, tu se solo colui da cu io tolsi lo bello stilo che mha fatto onore. Vedi la bestia per cu io mi volsi; aiutami da lei, famoso saggio, chella mi fa tremar le vene e i polsi. A te | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029872 | convien tenere altro vaggio, rispuose, poi che lagrimar mi vide, se vuo campar desto loco selvaggio; ch questa bestia, per la qual tu gride, non lascia altrui passar per la sua via, ma tanto lo mpedisce che luccide; e ha natura s malvagia e ria, che mai non empie la bramosa voglia, e dopo l pasto ha pi fame che | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029873 | pria. Molti son li animali a cui sammoglia, e pi saranno ancora, infin che l veltro verr, che la far morir con doglia. Questi non ciber terra n peltro, ma sapenza, amore e virtute, e sua nazion sar tra feltro e feltro. Di quella umile Italia fia salute per cui mor la vergine Cammilla, Eurialo e Turno e Niso di | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029874 | ferute. Questi la caccer per ogne villa, fin che lavr rimessa ne lo nferno, l onde nvidia prima dipartilla. Ond io per lo tuo me penso e discerno che tu mi segui, e io sar tua guida, e trarrotti di qui per loco etterno; ove udirai le disperate strida, vedrai li antichi spiriti dolenti, cha la seconda morte ciascun grida; | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029875 | e vederai color che son contenti nel foco, perch speran di venire quando che sia a le beate genti. A le quai poi se tu vorrai salire, anima fia a ci pi di me degna: con lei ti lascer nel mio partire; ch quello imperador che l s regna, perch i fu ribellante a la sua legge, non vuol che | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029876 | n sua citt per me si vegna. In tutte parti impera e quivi regge; quivi la sua citt e lalto seggio: oh felice colui cu ivi elegge!. E io a lui: Poeta, io ti richeggio per quello Dio che tu non conoscesti, acci chio fugga questo male e peggio, che tu mi meni l dov or dicesti, s chio veggia | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029877 | la porta di san Pietro e color cui tu fai cotanto mesti. Allor si mosse, e io li tenni dietro. Inferno Canto II Lo giorno se nandava, e laere bruno toglieva li animai che sono in terra da le fatiche loro; e io sol uno mapparecchiava a sostener la guerra s del cammino e s de la pietate, che ritrarr | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029878 | la mente che non erra. O muse, o alto ingegno, or maiutate; o mente che scrivesti ci chio vidi, qui si parr la tua nobilitate. Io cominciai: Poeta che mi guidi, guarda la mia virt sell possente, prima cha lalto passo tu mi fidi. Tu dici che di Silvo il parente, corruttibile ancora, ad immortale secolo and, e fu sensibilmente. | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029879 | Per, se lavversario dogne male cortese i fu, pensando lalto effetto chuscir dovea di lui, e l chi e l quale non pare indegno ad omo dintelletto; che fu de lalma Roma e di suo impero ne lempireo ciel per padre eletto: la quale e l quale, a voler dir lo vero, fu stabilita per lo loco santo u siede | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029880 | il successor del maggior Piero. Per quest andata onde li dai tu vanto, intese cose che furon cagione di sua vittoria e del papale ammanto. Andovvi poi lo Vas delezone, per recarne conforto a quella fede ch principio a la via di salvazione. Ma io, perch venirvi? o chi l concede? Io non Ena, io non Paulo sono; me degno | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029881 | a ci n io n altri l crede. Per che, se del venire io mabbandono, temo che la venuta non sia folle. Se savio; intendi me chi non ragiono. E qual quei che disvuol ci che volle e per novi pensier cangia proposta, s che dal cominciar tutto si tolle, tal mi fec o n quella oscura costa, perch, pensando, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029882 | consumai la mpresa che fu nel cominciar cotanto tosta. Si ho ben la parola tua intesa, rispuose del magnanimo quell ombra, lanima tua da viltade offesa; la qual molte fate lomo ingombra s che donrata impresa lo rivolve, come falso veder bestia quand ombra. Da questa tema acci che tu ti solve, dirotti perch io venni e quel chio ntesi | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029883 | nel primo punto che di te mi dolve. Io era tra color che son sospesi, e donna mi chiam beata e bella, tal che di comandare io la richiesi. Lucevan li occhi suoi pi che la stella; e cominciommi a dir soave e piana, con angelica voce, in sua favella: O anima cortese mantoana, di cui la fama ancor nel | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029884 | mondo dura, e durer quanto l mondo lontana, lamico mio, e non de la ventura, ne la diserta piaggia impedito s nel cammin, che vlt per paura; e temo che non sia gi s smarrito, chio mi sia tardi al soccorso levata, per quel chi ho di lui nel cielo udito. Or movi, e con la tua parola ornata e | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029885 | con ci cha mestieri al suo campare, laiuta s chi ne sia consolata. I son Beatrice che ti faccio andare; vegno del loco ove tornar disio; amor mi mosse, che mi fa parlare. Quando sar dinanzi al segnor mio, di te mi loder sovente a lui. Tacette allora, e poi comincia io: O donna di virt sola per cui lumana | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029886 | spezie eccede ogne contento di quel ciel cha minor li cerchi sui, tanto maggrada il tuo comandamento, che lubidir, se gi fosse, m tardi; pi non t uo chaprirmi il tuo talento. Ma dimmi la cagion che non ti guardi de lo scender qua giuso in questo centro de lampio loco ove tornar tu ardi. Da che tu vuo saver | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029887 | cotanto a dentro, dirotti brievemente, mi rispuose, perch i non temo di venir qua entro. Temer si dee di sole quelle cose channo potenza di fare altrui male; de laltre no, ch non son paurose. I son fatta da Dio, sua merc, tale, che la vostra miseria non mi tange, n fiamma desto ncendio non massale. Donna gentil nel ciel | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029888 | che si compiange di questo mpedimento ov io ti mando, s che duro giudicio l s frange. Questa chiese Lucia in suo dimando e disse:Or ha bisogno il tuo fedele di te, e io a te lo raccomando. Lucia, nimica di ciascun crudele, si mosse, e venne al loco dov i era, che mi sedea con lantica Rachele. Disse:Beatrice, loda | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029889 | di Dio vera, ch non soccorri quei che tam tanto, chusc per te de la volgare schiera? Non odi tu la pieta del suo pianto, non vedi tu la morte che l combatte su la fiumana ove l mar non ha vanto?. Al mondo non fur mai persone ratte a far lor pro o a fuggir lor danno, com io, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029890 | dopo cotai parole fatte, venni qua gi del mio beato scanno, fidandomi del tuo parlare onesto, chonora te e quei chudito lhanno. Poscia che mebbe ragionato questo, li occhi lucenti lagrimando volse, per che mi fece del venir pi presto. E venni a te cos com ella volse: dinanzi a quella fiera ti levai che del bel monte il corto | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029891 | andar ti tolse. Dunque: che ? perch, perch restai, perch tanta vilt nel core allette, perch ardire e franchezza non hai, poscia che tai tre donne benedette curan di te ne la corte del cielo, e l mio parlar tanto ben ti promette?. Quali fioretti dal notturno gelo chinati e chiusi, poi che l sol li mbianca, si drizzan tutti | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029892 | aperti in loro stelo, tal mi fec io di mia virtude stanca, e tanto buono ardire al cor mi corse, chi cominciai come persona franca: Oh pietosa colei che mi soccorse! e te cortese chubidisti tosto a le vere parole che ti porse! Tu mhai con disiderio il cor disposto s al venir con le parole tue, chi son tornato | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029893 | nel primo proposto. Or va, chun sol volere dambedue: tu duca, tu segnore e tu maestro. Cos li dissi; e poi che mosso fue, intrai per lo cammino alto e silvestro. Inferno Canto III Per me si va ne la citt dolente, per me si va ne letterno dolore, per me si va tra la perduta gente. Giustizia mosse il | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029894 | mio alto fattore; fecemi la divina podestate, la somma sapenza e l primo amore. Dinanzi a me non fuor cose create se non etterne, e io etterno duro. Lasciate ogne speranza, voi chintrate. Queste parole di colore oscuro vid o scritte al sommo duna porta; per chio: Maestro, il senso lor m duro. Ed elli a me, come persona accorta: | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029895 | Qui si convien lasciare ogne sospetto; ogne vilt convien che qui sia morta. Noi siam venuti al loco ov i tho detto che tu vedrai le genti dolorose channo perduto il ben de lintelletto. E poi che la sua mano a la mia puose con lieto volto, ond io mi confortai, mi mise dentro a le segrete cose. Quivi sospiri, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029896 | pianti e alti guai risonavan per laere sanza stelle, per chio al cominciar ne lagrimai. Diverse lingue, orribili favelle, parole di dolore, accenti dira, voci alte e fioche, e suon di man con elle facevano un tumulto, il qual saggira sempre in quell aura sanza tempo tinta, come la rena quando turbo spira. E io chavea derror la testa cinta, | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029897 | dissi: Maestro, che quel chi odo? e che gent che par nel duol s vinta?. Ed elli a me: Questo misero modo tegnon lanime triste di coloro che visser sanza nfamia e sanza lodo. Mischiate sono a quel cattivo coro de li angeli che non furon ribelli n fur fedeli a Dio, ma per s fuoro. Caccianli i ciel per | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029898 | non esser men belli, n lo profondo inferno li riceve, chalcuna gloria i rei avrebber delli. E io: Maestro, che tanto greve a lor che lamentar li fa s forte?. Rispuose: Dicerolti molto breve. Questi non hanno speranza di morte, e la lor cieca vita tanto bassa, che nvidosi son dogne altra sorte. Fama di loro il mondo esser non | 60 | gutenberg |
twg_000000029899 | lassa; misericordia e giustizia li sdegna: non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda e passa. E io, che riguardai, vidi una nsegna che girando correva tanto ratta, che dogne posa mi parea indegna; e dietro le vena s lunga tratta di gente, chi non averei creduto che morte tanta navesse disfatta. Poscia chio vebbi alcun riconosciuto, vidi e conobbi lombra di | 60 | gutenberg |
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