Of no use now but to gather brine, And began a kind of level whine Such as they used to sing to their viols When their ditties they go grinding Up and down with nobody minding; 410 And then, as of old, at the end of the humming Her usual presents were forthcoming --A dog-whistle blowing the fiercest of trebles (Just a seashore stone holding a dozen fine pebbles), Or a porcelain mouthpiece to screw on a pipe-end-- 415 And so she awaited her annual stipend. But this time the Duke would scarcely vouchsafe A word in reply; and in vain she felt With twitching fingers at her belt For the purse of sleek pine-marten pelt, 420 Ready to put what he gave in her pouch safe-- Till, either to quicken his apprehension, Or possibly with an after-intention, She was come, she said, to pay her duty To the new Duchess, the youthful beauty. 425 No sooner had she named his lady Than a shine lit up the face so shady, And its smirk returned with a novel meaning-- For it struck him, the babe just wanted weaning; If one gave her a taste of what life was and sorrow, 430 She, foolish today, would be wiser tomorrow; And who so fit a teacher of trouble As this sordid crone bent well-nigh double? So, glancing at her wolf-skin vesture, (If such it was, for they grow so hirsute 435 That their own fleece serves for natural fur-suit) He was contrasting, 'twas plain from his gesture, The life of the lady so flower-like and delicate With the loathsome squalor of this helicat. I, in brief, was the man the Duke beckoned 440 From out of the throng, and while I drew near He told the crone--as I since have reckoned By the way he bent and spoke into her ear With circumspection and mystery-- The main of the lady's history, 445 Her frowardness and ingratitude: And for all the crone's submissive attitude I could see round her mouth the loose plaits tightening, And her brow with assenting intelligence brightening, As though she engaged with hearty goodwill 450 Whatever he now might enjoin to fulfill, And promised the lady a thorough frightening. And so, just giving her a glimpse Of a purse, with the air of a man who imps The wing of the hawk that shall fetch the hernshaw, 455 He bade me take the gypsy mother And set her telling some story or other Of hill or dale, oak-wood or fernshaw, To wile away a weary hour For the lady left alone in her bower, 460 Whose mind and body craved exertion And yet shrank from all better diversion. XIV