as God lives,
     Said one day Agnolo, his very self,
     To Rafael—­I have known it all these years—­
     (When the young man was flaming out his thoughts
     Upon a palace wall for Rome to see,
     Too lifted up in heart because of it)
     “Friend, there’s a certain sorry little scrub
     Goes up and down our Florence, none cares how,
     Who, were he set to plan and execute
     As you are, pricked on by your popes and kings,
     Would bring the sweat into that brow of yours!”
     To Rafael’s!—­and indeed the arm is wrong. 
     I hardly dare ... yet, only you to see,
     Give the chalk here—­quick, thus the line should go! 
     Ay, but the soul! he’s Rafael! rub it out! 
     Still, all I care for, if he spoke the truth,
     (What he? why, who but Michel Agnolo? 
     Do you forget already words like those?)
     If really there was such a chance so lost,—­
     Is, whether you’re—­not grateful—­but more pleased. 
     Well, let me think so.  And you smile indeed! 
     This hour has been an hour!  Another smile? 
     If you would sit thus by me every night,
     I should work better—­do you comprehend? 
     I mean that I should earn more, give you more. 
     See, it is settled dusk now:  there’s a star;
     Morello’s gone, the watch lights show the wall,
     The cue-owls speak the name we call them by. 
     Come from the window, love,—­come in, at last,
     Inside the melancholy little house
     We built to be so gay with.  God is just. 
     King Francis may forgive me:  oft at nights
     When I look up from painting, eyes tired out,
     The walls become illumined, brick from brick
     Distinct, instead of mortar, fierce bright gold,
     That gold of his I did cement them with! 
     Let us but love each other.  Must you go? 
     That cousin here again? he waits outside? 
     Must see you—­you, and not with me?  Those loans? 
     More gaming debts to pay? you smiled for that? 
     Well, let smiles buy me! have you more to spend? 
     While hand and eye and something of a heart
     Are left me, work’s my ware, and what’s it worth? 
     I’ll pay my fancy.  Only let me sit
     The gray remainder of the evening out,
     Idle, you call it, and muse perfectly
     How I could paint were I but back in France,
     One picture, just one more—­the Virgin’s face,
     Not yours this time!  I want you at my side
     To hear them—­that is, Michel Agnolo—­
     Judge all I do and tell you of its worth. 
     Will you?  To-morrow satisfy your friend. 
     I take the subjects for his corridor,
     Finish the portrait out of hand—­there, there,
     And throw him in another thing or two
     If he demurs:  the whole should prove enough
     To pay for this same cousin’s freak.  Beside,
     What’s better, and what’s all I care about,
     Get you the thirteen send for the ruff! 
     Love, does that please you?  Ah, but what does he,
     The cousin! what does he to please you more?