Some women do so.  Had the mouth there urged
     “God and the glory! never care for gain. 
     The present by the future, what is that? 
     Live for fame, side by side with Agnolo! 
     Rafael is waiting:  up to God, all three!”
     I might have done it for you.  So it seems: 
     Perhaps not.  All is as God overrules. 
     Beside, incentives come from the soul’s self;
     The rest avail not.  Why do I need you? 
     What wife had Rafael, or has Agnolo? 
     In this world, who can do a thing, will not;
     And who would do it, cannot, I perceive: 
     Yet the will’s somewhat—­somewhat, too, the power—­
     And thus we half-men struggle.  At the end,
     God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
     ’Tis safer for me, if the award be strict,
     That I am something underrated here,
     Poor this long while,—­despised, to speak the truth. 
     I dared not, do you know, leave home all day,
     For fear of chancing on the Paris lords. 
     The best is when they pass and look aside;
     But they speak sometimes:  I must bear it all. 
     Well may they speak!  That Francis, that first time,
     And that long festal year at Fontainebleau! 
     I surely then could sometimes leave the ground,
     Put on the glory, Rafael’s daily wear,
     In that humane great monarch’s golden look,—­
     One finger in his beard or twisted curl
     Over his mouth’s good mark that made the smile,
     One arm about my shoulder, around my neck,
     The jingle of his gold chain in my ear,
     I painting proudly with his breath on me,
     All his court round him, seeing with his eyes,
     Such frank French eyes, and such a fire of souls
     Profuse, my hand kept plying by those hearts,—­
     And best of all, this, this, this face beyond,
     This in the background, waiting on my work,
     To crown the issue with a last reward! 
     A good time, was it not, my kingly days,
     And had you not grown restless ... but I know—­
     ’Tis done and past; ’twas right, my instinct said;
     Too live the life grew, golden and not gray;
     And I’m the weak-eyed bat no sun should tempt
     Out of the grange whose four walls make his world. 
     How could it end in any other way? 
     You called me, and I came home to your heart. 
     The triumph was to have ended there; then, if
     I reached it ere the triumph, what is lost? 
     Let my hands frame your face in your hair’s gold,
     You beautiful Lucrezia that are mine! 
     “Rafael did this, Andrea painted that;
     The Roman’s is the better when you pray,
     But still the other Virgin was his wife”—­
     Men will excuse me.  I am glad to judge
     Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows
     My better fortune, I resolve to think,
     For, do you know, Lucrezia,