Canto XX

good fruit is seldom gathered from it; But if Douay and Ghent, and Lille and Bruges Had power, soon vengeance would be taken on it; And this I pray of Him who judges all. Hugh Capet was I called upon the earth; From me were born the Louises and Philips, By whom in later days has France been governed. I was the son of a Parisian butcher, What time the ancient kings had perished all, Excepting one, contrite in cloth of gray. I found me grasping in my hands the rein Of the realm’s government, and so great power Of new acquest, and so with friends abounding, That to the widowed diadem promoted The head of mine own offspring was, from whom The consecrated bones of these began. So long as the great dowry of Provence Out of my blood took not the sense of shame, ’Twas little worth, but still it did no harm. Then it began with falsehood and with force Its rapine; and thereafter, for amends, Took Ponthieu, Normandy, and Gascony. Charles came to Italy, and for amends A victim made of Conradin, and then Thrust Thomas back to heaven, for amends. A time I see, not very distant now, Which draweth forth another Charles from France, The better to make known both him and his. Unarmed he goes, and only with the lance That Judas jousted with; and that he thrusts So that he makes the paunch of Florence burst. He thence not land, but sin and infamy, Shall gain, so much more grievous to himself As the more light such damage he accounts. The other, now gone forth, ta’en in his ship, See I his daughter sell, and chaffer for her As corsairs do with other female slaves. What more, O Avarice, canst thou do to us, Since thou my blood so to thyself hast drawn, It careth not for its own proper flesh? That less may seem the future ill and past, I see the flower-de-luce Alagna enter, And Christ in his own Vicar captive made. I see him yet another time derided; I see renewed the vinegar and gall, And between living thieves I see him slain. I see the modern Pilate so relentless, This does not sate him, but without decretal He to the temple bears his sordid sails! When, O my Lord! shall I be joyful made By looking on the vengeance which, concealed, Makes sweet thine anger in thy secrecy? What I was saying of that only bride Of