My Last Duchess

　　 by Robert Browning

　　 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， 't was 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， 't was 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 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！