Therefore, my Muse, impatient to begin, I bid thee fearless forward on thy road: Steer thou thy honest course 'twixt bad and good. Know this, in art that thing alone is evil Which shuns the one plain word that shames the devil. Tell truth without preamble or excuse, And all shall be forgiven thee--all, my Muse! * * * * * In London then not many years ago There lived a lady of high fashion, who For her friends' sake, if any still there be Who hold her virtues green in memory, Shall not be further named in this true tale Than as Griselda or the Lady L., Such, if I err not, was the second name Her parents gave when to the font she came, And such the initial letter bravely set On her coach door, beneath the coronet, Which bore her and her fortunes--bore, alas! For, as in this sad world all things must pass, However great and nobly framed and fair: Griselda, too, is of the things that were. But while she lived Griselda had no need Of the world's pity. She was proudly bred And proudly nurtured. Plenty her full horn Had fairly emptied out when she was born, And dowered her with all bounties. She was fair As only children of the noblest are, And brave and strong and opulent of health, Which made her take full pleasure of her wealth. She had a pitying scorn of little souls And little bodies, levying heavy tolls On all the world which was less strong than she. She used her natural strength most naturally, And yet with due discretion, so that all Stood equally in bondage to her thrall. She was of that high godlike shape and size Which has authority in all men's eyes: Her hair was brown, her colour white and red, Nor idly moved to blush. She held her head Straight with her back. Her body, from the knee Tall and clean shaped, like some well-nurtured tree, Rose finely finished to the finger tips; She had a noble carriage of the hips, And that proportionate waist which only art Dares to divine, harmonious part with part. But of this more anon, or rather never. All that the world could vaunt for its endeavour Was the fair promise of her ankles set Upon a pair of small high-instepped feet, In whose behalf, though modestly, God wot, As any nun, she raised her petticoat One little inch more high than reason meet Was for one crossing a well-besomed street. This was the only tribute she allowed To human folly and the envious crowd; Nor for my part would I be found her judge For her one weakness, nor appear to grudge What in myself, as surely in the rest, Bred strange sweet fancies such as feet suggest. We owe her all too much. This point apart, Griselda, modesty's own counterpart, Moved in the sphere of folly like a star, Aloof and bright and most particular.