Wherefore the hours flew lightly, winged with words;
Till Angelo, from telling of his own
Young days and early fortunes good and ill,
Was with remembrance smitten, as it chanced,
Of some old grief ’twas grief to think upon. 
And so he changed his theme o’ the sudden, donned
A shadowy mask of laboured pleasantry,
And said:  “My wife, sir, hath a pretty gift
Of singing and of luting:  it may be
If you should let your tongue turn mendicant—­
Not for itself but for its needy kin,
Your ears—­she might be got to give an alms
For those twin brethren.”  Whereupon the guest
Unto his hostess turned and smiling said: 
“That were indeed a golden alms your voice
Could well afford, and never know itself
The poorer, being a mint of suchlike coin.” 
And she made answer archly:  “I have oft
Heard flatterers of a woman’s singing say
Her voice was silvery:—­to compare ’t with gold
Is sure a new conceit.  But, sir, you praise
My singing, who have not yet heard me sing.” 
And he:  “I take it that a woman’s speech
Is to her singing what a bird’s low chirp
Is to its singing:  and if Philomel
Chirp in the hearing of the woodman, he
Knows ’tis the nightingale that chirps, and so
Expects nought meaner than its sovereign song. 
Madam, ’tis thus your speaking-voice hath given
Earnest of what your singing-voice will be;
And therefore I entreat you not to dash
The expectations you have raised so high,
By your refusal.”  And she answered him: 
“Nay, if you think to hear a nightingale,
I doubt refusal could not dash them more
Than will compliance.  But in very truth,
The boon you crave so small and worthless is,
’Twere miserly to grudge it.  Where’s my lute?”

So saying, she bethought her suddenly—­
Or feigned to have bethought her suddenly—­
How she had left the lute that afternoon
Lying upon an arbour-seat, when she
Grew tired of fingering the strings of it—­
Down in the garden, where she wont to walk,
Her lute loquacious to the trees’ deaf trunks. 
And Angelo, right glad to render her
Such little graceful offices of love,
And gladder yet with hope to hear her sing
Who had denied his asking many a time,
Awaited not another word, but rose
And said, “Myself will bring it,” and before
She could assent or disapprove, was gone.

Scarce had he left the chamber when behold
His wife uprose, and his young stranger-guest
Uprose, and in a trice they cast their arms
About each other, kissed each other, called
Each other dear and love, till Lucia said: 
“Why cam’st thou not before, my Ugo, whom
I loved, who lovedst me, for many a day,
For many a paradisal day, ere yet
I saw that lean fool with the grizzled beard
Who’s gone a-questing for his true wife’s lute?”
And he made answer:  “I had come erenow,
But that my father, dying, left a load