I sate there, musing, till she touched my hand With hers, as softly as a strange white bird She feared to startle in touching. ‘You are kind. But are you, peradventure, vexed at heart Because your cousin takes me for a wife? I know I am not worthy—nay, in truth, I’m glad on’t, since, for that, he chooses me. He likes the poor things of the world the best; I would not therefore, if I could, be rich. It pleasures him to stoop for buttercups; I would not be a rose upon the wall A queen might stop at, near the palace-door, To say to a courtier, ‘Pluck that rose for me, ‘It’s prettier than the rest,’ O Romney Leigh! I’d rather far be trodden by his foot, Than lie in a great queen’s bosom.’ Out of breath She paused. ‘Sweet Marian, do you disavow The roses with that face?’ She dropt her head, As if the wind had caught that flower of her, And bent it in the garden,—then looked up With grave assurance. ‘Well, you think me bold! But so we all are, when we’re praying God. And if I’m bold—yet, lady, credit me, That, since I know myself for what I am, Much fitter for his handmaid than his wife, I’ll prove the handmaid and the wife at once, Serve tenderly, and love obediently, And be a worthier mate, perhaps, than some Who are wooed in silk among their learned books; While _I_ shall set myself to read his eyes, Till such grow plainer to me than the French To wisest ladies. Do you think I’ll miss A letter, in the spelling of his mind? No more than they do, when they sit and write Their flying words with flickering wild-fowl tails, Nor ever pause to ask how many _t_s, Should that be _y_ or _i_—they know’t so well: I’ve seen them writing, when I brought a dress And waited,—floating out their soft white hands On shining paper. But they’re hard sometimes, For all those hands!—we’ve used out many nights, And worn the yellow daylight into shreds Which flapped and shivered down our aching eyes Till night appeared more tolerable, just That pretty ladies might look beautiful, Who said at last ... ‘You’re lazy in that house! ‘You’re slow in sending home the work,—I count I’ve waited near an hour for’t.’ Pardon me,— I do not blame them, madam, nor misprize; They are fair and gracious; ay, but not like you, Since none but you has Mister Leigh’s own blood Both noble and gentle,—and, without it ... well, They are fair, I said; so fair, it scarce seems strange That, flashing out in any looking-glass The wonder of their glorious brows and breasts, They are charmed so, they forget to look behind And mark how pale we’ve grown, we pitiful Remainders of the world. And so, perhaps, If Mister Leigh had chosen a wife from these, She might ...