The Complete Poems of Robert Browning - 22 Poetry Collections in One Edition. Robert Browning

       Lords and ladies alike turned with loathing

       From such a proved wolf in sheep’s clothing.

       Not so, I; for I caught an expression

       In her brow’s undisturbed self-possession

       Amid the Court’s scoffing and merriment, —

       As if from no pleasing experiment

       She rose, yet of pain not much heedful

       So long as the process was needful, —

       As if she had tried in a crucible,

       To what “speeches like gold” were reducible,

       And, finding the finest prove copper,

       Felt the smoke in her face was but proper;

       To know what she had not to trust to,

       Was worth all the ashes and dust too.

       She went out ‘mid hooting and laughter;

       Clement Marot stayed; I followed after,

       And asked, as a grace, what it all meant?

       If she wished not the rash deed’s recalment?

       “For I” — so I spoke — ”am a poet:

       “Human nature, — behoves that I know it!”

       She told me, “Too long had I heard

       “Of the deed proved alone by the word:

       “For my love — what De Lorge would not dare!

       “With my scorn — what De Lorge could compare!

       “And the endless descriptions of death

       “He would brave when my lip formed a breath,

       “I must reckon as braved, or, of course,

       “Doubt his word — and moreover, perforce,

       “For such gifts as no lady could spurn,

       “Must offer my love in return.

       “When I looked on your lion, it brought

       “All the dangers at once to my thought,

       “Encountered by all sorts of men,

       “Before he was lodged in his den, —

       “From the poor slave whose club or bare hands

       “Dug the trap, set the snare on the sands,

       “With no King and no Court to applaud,

       “By no shame, should he shrink, overawed,

       “Yet to capture the creature made shift,

       “That his rude boys might laugh at the gift,

       “To the page who last leaped o’er the fence

       “Of the pit, on no greater pretence

       “Than to get back the bonnet he dropped,

       “Lest his pay for a week should be stopped —

       “So, wiser I judged it to make

       “One trial what ‘death for my sake’

       “Really meant, while the power was yet mine,

       “Than to wait until time should define

       “Such a phrase not so simply as I,

       “Who took it to mean just ‘to die.’

       “The blow a glove gives is but weak:

       “Does the mark yet discolour my cheek?

       “But when the heart suffers a blow,

       “Will the pain pass so soon, do you know?”

       I looked, as away she was sweeping,

       And saw a youth eagerly keeping

       As close as he dared to the doorway:

       No doubt that a noble should more weigh

       His life than befits a plebeian;

       And yet, had our brute been Nemean —

       (I judge by a certain calm fervour

       The youth stepped with, forward to serve her)

       — He’d have scarce thought you did him the worst turn

       If you whispered “Friend, what you’d get, first earn!”

       And when, shortly after, she carried

       Her shame from the Court, and they married,

       To that marriage some happiness, maugre

       The voice of the Court, I dared augur.

       For De Lorge, he made women with men vie,

       Those in wonder and praise, these in envy;

       And in short stood so plain a head taller

       That he wooed and won … how do you call her?

       The beauty, that rose in the sequel

       To the King’s love, who loved her a week well.

       And ’twas noticed he never would honour

       De Lorge (who looked daggers upon her)

       With the easy commission of stretching

       His legs in the service, and fetching

       His wife, from her chamber, those straying

       Sad gloves she was always mislaying,

       While the King took the closet to chat in, —

       But of course this adventure came pat in;

       And never the King told the story,

       How bringing a glove brought such glory,

       But the wife smiled — ”His nerves are grown firmer —

       “Mine he brings now and utters no murmur.”

       Venienti occurrite morbo!

       With which moral I drop my theorbo.