My Last Duchess

Sir, 'twas all one! My favour at her breast,

The dropping of the daylight in the West,

The bough of cherries some officious fool

Broke in the orchard for her, the white mule

She rode with round the terrace—-all and each

Would draw from her alike the approving speech,

Or blush, at least. She thanked men,—-good! but thanked

Somehow—-I know not how—-as if she ranked

My gift of a nine-hundred-years-old name

With anybody's gift. Who'd stoop to blame

This sort of trifling? Even had you skill

In speech—-(which I have not)—-to make your will

Quite clear to such an one, and say, "Just this

"Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,

"Or there exceed the mark''—-and if she let

Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set

Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,

—-E'en then would be some stooping; and I choose

Never to stoop. Oh sir, she smiled, no doubt,

Whene'er I passed her; but who passed without

Much the same smile? This grew; I gave commands;