136. ‘Fiamma dal ciel su le tue treccie piova.’

Wicked one, may heaven’s fire rain down

on your head, you who grow rich and great

by bringing others down to bread and water,

taking so much joy in evil actions:

nest of treachery, where all the evil,

spread through all the world, hatches,

slave to wine, delicacies and good living,

where Luxury performs her worst.

Through your rooms young girls and old men,

pursue their affairs, Beelzebub among them

with fire and bellows and with mirrors.

You were not born to grace a feather bed,

but go naked in the wind, barefoot on thorns:

now you live so that the stench rises to God.

Note: Addressed to the Papal Court at Avignon.