XXVII

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XXVII

So the two brothers and their murder’d man

Rode past fair Florence, to where Arno’s stream

Gurgles through straighten’d banks, and still doth fan

Itself with dancing bulrush, and the bream

Keeps head against the freshets. Sick and wan

The brothers’ faces in the ford did seem,

Lorenzo’s flush with love.⁠—They pass’d the water

Into a forest quiet for the slaughter.