My Last Duchess

       That's my last Duchess painted on the wall, 
       Looking as if she were alive. I call 
       That piece a wonder, now: Fra Pandolf's hands 
       Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
       Will 't please you to sit and look at her? I said 
       ``Fra Pandolf'' by design, for never read 
       Strangers like you that pictured countenance, 
       The depth and passion of its earnest glance, 
       But to my self 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, 't was not 
       Her husband's presence only, called that spot 
       Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps 
       Fra 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 
       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. 
       Sir, 't was all one! My favor at her breast, 
       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 
       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 
       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 
       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 
       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 
       Is ample warrant that no just pretence 
       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, 
       Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity, 
       Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!