(And fifty praises to excuse one love) ‘But was the picture safe he had ventured for?’ And then, half wandering ... ‘I have loved her well, Although she could not love me.’—‘Say instead,’ I answered, ‘that she loves you.’—’Twas my turn To rave: (I would have married him so changed, Although the world had jeered me properly For taking up with Cupid at his worst, The silver quiver worn off on his hair.) ‘No, no,’ he murmured, ‘no, she loves me not; Aurora Leigh does better: bring her book And read it softly, Lady Waldemar, Until I thank your friendship more for that, Than even for harder service.’ So I read Your book, Aurora, for an hour, that day: I kept its pauses, marked its emphasis; My voice, empaled upon rhyme’s golden hooks, Not once would writhe, nor quiver, nor revolt; I read on calmly,—calmly shut it up, Observing, ‘There’s some merit in the book. And yet the merit in’t is thrown away As chances still with women, if we write Or write not: we want string to tie our flowers, So drop them as we walk, which serves to show The way we went. Good morning, Mister Leigh; You’ll find another reader the next time. A woman who does better than to love, I hate; she will do nothing very well: Male poets are preferable, tiring less And teaching more.’ I triumphed o’er you both, And left him. ‘When I saw him afterward, I had read your shameful letter, and my heart. He came with health recovered, strong though pale, Lord Howe and he, a courteous pair of friends, To say what men dare say to women, when Their debtors. But I stopped them with a word; And proved I had never trodden such a road, To carry so much dirt upon my shoe. Then, putting into it something of disdain, I asked forsooth his pardon, and my own, For having done no better than to love, And that, not wisely,—though ’twas long ago, And though ’twas altered perfectly since then. I told him, as I tell you now, Miss Leigh, And proved I took some trouble for his sake (Because I knew he did not love the girl) To spoil my hands with working in the stream Of that poor bubbling nature,—till she went, Consigned to one I trusted, my own maid, Who once had lived full five months in my house, (Dressed hair superbly) with a lavish purse To carry to Australia where she had left A husband, said she. If the creature lied, The mission failed, we all do fail and lie More or less—and I’m sorry—which is all Expected from us when we fail the most, And go to church to own it. What I meant, Was just the best for him, and me, and her ... Best even for Marian!—I am sorry for’t, And very sorry. Yet my creature said She saw her stop to speak in Oxford Street To one ... no matter! I had sooner cut My hand off (though ’twere kissed the hour before,