To spare me the Piazza's slippery stone Or keep me to the unchoked canals alone, As hinder Life the evil with the good Which make up Living, rightly understood. [Sidenote: Which instigates to tasks like this,] Only, do finish something! Peasants, queens, Take them, made happy by whatever means, Parade them for the common credit, vouch That a luckless residue, we send to crouch In corners out of sight, was just as framed For happiness, its portion might have claimed As well, and so, obtaining joy, had stalked Fastuous as any!--such my project, balked Already; I hardly venture to adjust The first rags, when you find me. To mistrust Me!--nor unreasonably. You, no doubt, Have the true knack of tiring suitors out With those thin lips on tremble, lashless eyes Inveterately tear-shot--there, be wise, Mistress of mine, there, there, as if I meant You insult!--shall your friend (not slave) be shent For speaking home? Beside, care-bit erased Broken-up beauties ever took my taste Supremely; and I love you more, far more Than her I looked should foot Life's temple-floor. Years ago, leagues at distance, when and where A whisper came, "Let others seek!--thy care [Sidenote: And doubtlessly compensates them,] Is found, thy life's provision; if thy race Should be thy mistress, and into one face The many faces crowd?" Ah, had I, judge, Or no, your secret? Rough apparel--grudge All ornaments save tag or tassel worn To hint we are not thoroughly forlorn-- Slouch bonnet, unloop mantle, careless go Alone (that 's saddest, but it must be so) Through Venice, sing now and now glance aside, Aught desultory or undignified,-- Then, ravishingest lady, will you pass Or not each formidable group, the mass Before the Basilic (that feast gone by, God's great day of the Corpus Domini) And, wistfully foregoing proper men, Come timid up to me for alms? And then The luxury to hesitate, feign do Some unexampled grace!--when, whom but you Dare I bestow your own upon? And hear Further before you say, it is to sneer I call you ravishing; for I regret Little that she, whose early foot was set Forth as she 'd plant it on a pedestal, Now, i' the silent city, seems to fall Toward me--no wreath, only a lip's unrest To quiet, surcharged eyelids to be pressed Dry of their tears upon my bosom. Strange Such sad chance should produce in thee such change, My love! Warped souls and bodies! yet God spoke Of right-hand, foot and eye--selects our yoke, Sordello, as your poetship may find! So, sleep upon my shoulder, child, nor mind Their foolish talk; we 'll manage reinstate Your old worth; ask moreover, when they prate Of evil men past hope, "Don't each contrive, Despite the evil you abuse, to live?--