And promised a pearl troth-ring for the next) Than crush her silly head with so much wrong. Poor child! I would have mended it with gold, Until it gleamed like St. Sophia’s dome When all the faithful troop to morning prayer: But he, he nipped the bud of such a thought With that cold Leigh look which I fancied once, And broke in, ‘Henceforth she was called his wife. His wife required no succour: he was bound To Florence, to resume this broken bond: Enough so. Both were happy, he and Howe, To acquit me of the heaviest charge of all—’ —At which I shot my tongue against my fly And struck him; ‘Would he carry,—he was just,— A letter from me to Aurora Leigh, And ratify from his authentic mouth My answer to her accusation?’—‘Yes, If such a letter were prepared in time.’ —He’s just, your cousin,—ay, abhorrently. He’d wash his hands in blood, to keep them clean. And so, cold, courteous, a mere gentleman, He bowed, we parted. ‘Parted. Face no more, Voice no more, love no more! wiped wholly out Like some ill scholar’s scrawl from heart and slate,— Ay, spit on and so wiped out utterly By some coarse scholar! I have been too coarse, Too human. Have we business, in our rank, With blood i’ the veins? I will have henceforth none; Not even to keep the colour at my lip. A rose is pink and pretty without blood; Why not a woman? When we’ve played in vain The game, to adore,—we have resources still, And can play on at leisure, being adored: Here’s Smith already swearing at my feet That I’m the typic She. Away with Smith!— Smith smacks of Leigh,—and, henceforth, I’ll admit No socialist within three crinolines, To live and have his being. But for you, Though insolent your letter and absurd, And though I hate you frankly,—take my Smith! For when you have seen this famous marriage tied, A most unspotted Erle to a noble Leigh, (His love astray on one he should not love) Howbeit you should not want his love, beware, You’ll want some comfort. So I leave you Smith; Take Smith!—he talks Leigh’s subjects, somewhat worse; Adopts a thought of Leigh’s, and dwindles it; Goes leagues beyond, to be no inch behind; Will mind you of him, as a shoe-string may, Of a man: and women, when they are made like you, Grow tender to a shoe-string, footprint even, Adore averted shoulders in a glass, And memories of what, present once, was loathed. And yet, you loathed not Romney,—though you’ve played At ‘fox and goose’ about him with your soul: Pass over fox, you rub out fox,—ignore A feeling, you eradicate it,—the act’s Identical. I wish you joy, Miss Leigh. You’ve made a happy marriage for your friend; And all the honour, well-assorted love, Derives from you who love him, whom he loves!