Went mad upon them ... madder and more mad, From college times to these,—as, going down hill, The faster still, the farther! you must know Your Leigh by heart: he has sown his black young curls With bleaching cares of half a million men Already. If you do not starve, or sin, You’re nothing to him. Pay the income-tax, And break your heart upon’t ... he’ll scarce be touched; But come upon the parish, qualified For the parish stocks, and Romney will be there To call you brother, sister, or perhaps A tenderer name still. Had I any chance With Mister Leigh, who am Lady Waldemar, And never committed felony?’ ‘You speak Too bitterly,’ I said, ‘for the literal truth.’ ‘The truth is bitter. Here’s a man who looks For ever on the ground! you must be low Or else a pictured ceiling overhead, Good painting thrown away. For me, I’ve done What women may, (we’re somewhat limited, We modest women) but I’ve done my best. —How men are perjured when they swear our eyes Have meaning in them! they’re just blue or brown,— They just can drop their lids a little. In fact, Mine did more, for I read half Fourier through, Proudhon, Considerant, and Louis Blanc, With various others of his socialists; And if I had been a fathom less in love, Had cured myself with gaping. As it was, I quoted from them prettily enough, Perhaps, to make them sound half rational To a saner man than he, whene’er we talked, (For which I dodged occasion)—learnt by heart His speeches in the Commons and elsewhere Upon the social question; heaped reports Of wicked women and penitentiaries, On all my tables, with a place for Sue; And gave my name to swell subscription-lists Toward keeping up the sun at nights in heaven, And other possible ends. All things I did, Except the impossible ... such as wearing gowns Provided by the Ten Hours’ movement! there, I stopped—we must stop somewhere. He, meanwhile, Unmoved as the Indian tortoise ’neath the world, Let all that noise go on upon his back: He would not disconcert or throw me out; ’Twas well to see a woman of my class With such a dawn of conscience. For the heart, Made firewood for his sake, and flaming up To his very face ... he warmed his feet at it; But deigned to let my carriage stop him short In park or street,—he leaning on the door, With news of the committee which sate last On pickpockets at suck.’ ‘You jest—you jest.’