And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And the low voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler’s pipe, and follows to the snare—­
Had you, with these the same, but brought a mind! 
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! 130
Rafael is waiting:  up to God, all three!”
I might have done it for you.  So it seems: 
Perhaps not.  All is as God over-rules. 
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, 140
God, I conclude, compensates, punishes. 
’T is 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! 150
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, round 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 160
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—­
’T is done and past; ’t was 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. 170
How could it end in any other way? 
You called me, and I came home to your heart. 
The triumph was—­to reach and stay there; since
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’s Virgin was his wife—­”
Men will excuse me, I am glad to judge 180
Both pictures in your presence; clearer grows
My better fortune, I resolve to think.