And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: "Though I love her--that, he comprehends-- One should master one's passions (love, in chief), And be loyal to one's friends!" And she--she lies in my hand as tame As a pear late basking over a wall; Just a touch to try, and off it came; 'Tis mine,--can I let it fall? With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst When I gave its stalk a twist. And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see: What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? No hero, I confess. 'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, And matter enough to save one's own: Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals He played with for bits of stone! One likes to show the truth for the truth; That the woman was light is very true: But suppose she says,--Never mind that youth! What wrong have I done to you? Well, anyhow, here the story stays, So far at least as I understand; And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, Here's a subject made to your hand! Now let us see how much there is to study in this simple-seeming poem. It will give us an easy and an excellent example of the way in which Browning must be read; and it will require at least an hour's chat to explain properly. For, really, Browning never writes simply.