Ferrara

   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 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 myself they turned (since none puts by

   the curtain I have drawn for you, but I)                       10

   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

   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                    20

   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,                30

   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                        40

   Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

   E'en that 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                         50

   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!

   NOTES:

   "My Last Duchess" puts in the mouth of a Duke of Ferrara,

   a typical husband and art patron of the Renaissance, a

   description of his last wife, whose happy nature and universal

   kindliness were a perpetual affront to his exacting

   self-predominance, and whose suppression, by his command,

   has made the vacancy he is now, in his interview

   with the envoy for a new match, taking precaution to fill

   more acceptably.

   3.  Fra Pandolf, and 56.  Claus of Innsbruck, are imaginary.