FERRARA.
Thatâs my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive. I call
That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolfâs hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Willât please you sit and look at her? I said
âFra Pandolfâ 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
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, âtwas not
Her husbandâs presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchessâ cheek: perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say âHer mantle laps
Over my ladyâs wrist too much,â or âPaint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat:â such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
For calling up that spot of joy. She had
A heartâ-how shall I say?â-too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whateâer
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
Sir, âtwas 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 terraceâ-all and each
Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
Or blush, at least. She thanked men,â-good! but thanked
Somehowâ-I know not howâ-as if she ranked
My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
With anybodyâs gift. Whoâd stoop to blame
This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
In speechâ-(which I have not)â-to make your will
Quite clear to such an one, and say, âJust this
âOr that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
âOr there exceed the markââ-and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
â-Eâen then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Wheneâer I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
As if alive. Willât please you rise? Weâll meet
The company below, then. I repeat,
The Count your masterâs known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughterâs self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object. Nay, weâll go
Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!
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