I would address those two together coming,
Which seem so light before the wind.”  He thus: 
“Note thou, when nearer they to us approach. 
Then by that love which carries them along,
Entreat; and they will come.”  Soon as the wind
Sway’d them toward us, I thus fram’d my speech: 
“O wearied spirits! come, and hold discourse
With us, if by none else restrain’d.”  As doves
By fond desire invited, on wide wings
And firm, to their sweet nest returning home,
Cleave the air, wafted by their will along;
Thus issu’d from that troop, where Dido ranks,
They through the ill air speeding; with such force
My cry prevail’d by strong affection urg’d. 
     “O gracious creature and benign! who go’st
Visiting, through this element obscure,
Us, who the world with bloody stain imbru’d;
If for a friend the King of all we own’d,
Our pray’r to him should for thy peace arise,
Since thou hast pity on our evil plight.
()f whatsoe’er to hear or to discourse
It pleases thee, that will we hear, of that
Freely with thee discourse, while e’er the wind,
As now, is mute.  The land, that gave me birth,
Is situate on the coast, where Po descends
To rest in ocean with his sequent streams. 
     “Love, that in gentle heart is quickly learnt,
Entangled him by that fair form, from me
Ta’en in such cruel sort, as grieves me still: 
Love, that denial takes from none belov’d,
Caught me with pleasing him so passing well,
That, as thou see’st, he yet deserts me not. 
Love brought us to one death:  Caina waits
The soul, who spilt our life.”  Such were their words;
At hearing which downward I bent my looks,
And held them there so long, that the bard cried: 
“What art thou pond’ring?” I in answer thus: 
“Alas! by what sweet thoughts, what fond desire
Must they at length to that ill pass have reach’d!”
     Then turning, I to them my speech address’d. 
And thus began:  “Francesca! your sad fate
Even to tears my grief and pity moves. 
But tell me; in the time of your sweet sighs,
By what, and how love granted, that ye knew
Your yet uncertain wishes?” She replied: 
“No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when mis’ry is at hand!  That kens
Thy learn’d instructor.  Yet so eagerly
If thou art bent to know the primal root,
From whence our love gat being, I will do,
As one, who weeps and tells his tale.  One day
For our delight we read of Lancelot,
How him love thrall’d.  Alone we were, and no
Suspicion near us.  Ofttimes by that reading
Our eyes were drawn together, and the hue
Fled from our alter’d cheek.  But at one point
Alone we fell.  When of that smile we read,
The wished smile, rapturously kiss’d
By one so deep in love, then he, who ne’er
From me shall separate, at once my lips
All trembling kiss’d.  The book and writer both
Were love’s purveyors.  In its leaves that day
We read no more.”  While thus one spirit spake,
The other wail’d so sorely, that heartstruck
I through compassion fainting, seem’d not far
From death, and like a corpse fell to the ground.