"My Last Duchess"
byRobert Browning
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That's my Last Duchess painted on the wall,
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Looking as if she were alive. I call
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That piece a wonder, now: Frà Pandolf's hands
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Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
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Will't please you sit and look at her? I said
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"Frà Pandolf" by design, for never read
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Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
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The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
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But to myself they turned (since none puts by
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The curtain I have drawn for you, but I)
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And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
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How such a glance came there; so, not the first
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Are you to turn and ask thus. Sir, 'twas not
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Her husband's presence only, called that spot
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Of joy into the Duchess' cheek: perhaps
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Frà Pandolf chanced to say "Her mantle laps
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Over my lady's wrist too much," or "Paint
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Must never hope to reproduce the faint
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Half-flush that dies along her throat": such stuff
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Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough
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For calling up that spot of joy. She had
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A hearthow shall I say?too soon made glad,
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Too easily impressed; she liked whate'er
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She looked on, and her looks went everywhere.
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Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,
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The dropping of the daylight in the West,
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The bough of cherries some officious fool
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Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule
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She rode with round the terraceall and each
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Would draw from her alike the approving speech,
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Or blush, at least. She thanked men,good! but thanked
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SomehowI know not howas if she ranked
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My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name
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With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame
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This sort of trifling? Even had you skill
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In speech(which I have not)to make your will
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Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this
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Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
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Or there exceed the mark"and if she let
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Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
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Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
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E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose
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Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,
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Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without
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Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;
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Then all smiles stopped together. There she stands
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As if alive. Will't please you rise? We'll meet
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The company below, then. I repeat,
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The Count your master's known munificence
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Is ample warrant that no just pretence
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Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
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Though his fair daughter's self, as I avowed
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At starting, is my object. Nay, we'll go
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Together down, sir. Notice Neptune, though,
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Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
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Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!