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.

      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

      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

      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

      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, ’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

      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 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,

      Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,

      Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!