When it approaches its five-hundredth year; On herb or grain it feeds not in its life, But only on tears of incense and amomum, And nard and myrrh are its last winding-sheet. And as he is who falls, and knows not how, By force of demons who to earth down drag him, Or other oppilation that binds man, 352 When he arises and around him looks, Wholly bewildered by the mighty anguish Which he has suffered, and in looking sighs; Such was that sinner after he had risen. Justice of God! O how severe it is, That blows like these in vengeance poureth down! The Guide thereafter asked him who he was; Whence he replied: “I rained from Tuscany A short time since into this cruel gorge. A bestial life, and not a human, pleased me, Even as the mule I was; I’m Vanni Fucci, 353 Beast, and Pistoia was my worthy den.” And I unto the Guide: “Tell him to stir not, And ask what crime has thrust him here below, For once a man of blood and wrath I saw him.”