| | | That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, |
| | | Looking as if she were alive. I call |
| | | That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf’s hands |
| | | Worked busily a day, and there she stands. |
| 5 | | Will’t please you sit and look at her? I said |
| | | ‘Frà Pandolf’ by design, for never read |
| | | Strangers like you that pictured countenance, |
| | | The depth and passion of its earnest glance, |
| | | But to myself they turned (since none puts by |
| 10 | | The curtain I have drawn for you, but I) |
| | | And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst, |
| | | How such a glance came there; so, not the first |
| | | Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, ’twas not |
| | | Her husband’s presence only, called that spot |
| 15 | | Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek: perhaps |
| | | Frà Pandolf chanced to say ‘Her mantle laps |
| | | Over my lady’s wrist too much,’ or ‘Paint |
| | | Must never hope to reproduce the faint |
| | | Half-flush that dies along her throat’: such stuff |
| 20 | | Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough |
| | | For calling up that spot of joy. She had |
| | | A heart – how shall I say? – too soon made glad, |
| | | Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er |
| | | She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. |
| 25 | | Sir, ’twas all one! My favour at her breast, |
| | | The dropping of the daylight in the West, |
| | | The bough of cherries some officious fool |
| | | Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule |
| | | She rode with round the terrace – all and each |
| 30 | | Would draw from her alike the approving speech, |
| | | Or blush, at least. She thanked men, – good! but thanked |
| | | Somehow – I know not how – as if she ranked |
| | | My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name |
| | | With anybody’s gift. Who’d stoop to blame |
| 35 | | This sort of trifling? Even had you skill |
| | | In speech – (which I have not) – to make your will |
| | | Quite clear to such an one, and say, ‘Just this |
| | | Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss, |
| | | Or there exceed the mark’ – and if she let |
| 40 | | Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set |
| | | Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse, |
| | | – E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose |
| | | Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt, |
| | | Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without |
| 45 | | Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands; |
| | | Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands |
| | | As if alive. Will’t please you rise? We’ll meet |
| | | The company below, then. I repeat, |
| | | The Count your master’s known munificence |
| 50 | | Is ample warrant that no just pretense |
| | | Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; |
| | | Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed |
| | | At starting, is my object. Nay, we’ll go |
| | | Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though, |
| 55 | | Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, |
| | | Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me. |
First published 1842.
Contributed by Robert Clark.
