Alack, it was I who leaped at the sun
        To give it my loving friends to keep! 
Nought man could do, have I left undone: 
        And you see my harvest, what I reap
This very day, now a year is run.

IV

There’s nobody on the house-tops now—­
         Just a palsied few at the windows set;
For the best of the sight is, all allow,
        At the Shambles’ Gate—­or, better yet,
By the very scaffold’s foot, I trow. 20

V

I go in the rain, and, more than needs,
        A rope cuts both my wrists behind;
And I think, by the feel, my forehead bleeds,
        For they fling, whoever has a mind,
Stones at me for my year’s misdeeds.

VI

Thus I entered, and thus I go! 
        In triumphs, people have dropped down dead. 
“Paid by the world, what dost thou owe
        Me?”—­God might question; now instead,
’Tis God shall repay:  I am safer so. 30

Notes:  “The Patriot” is a hero’s story of the reward and punishment dealt him for his services within one year.  To act regardless of praise or blame, save God’s, seems safer.

MY LAST DUCHESS Ferrara

That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall,
Looking as if she were alive.  I call
That piece a wonder, now:  Fra Pandolf’s hands
Worked busily a day, and there she stands. 
Will’t please you sit and look at her?  I said
“Fra Pandolf” by design, for never read
Strangers like you that pictured countenance,
The depth and passion of its earnest glance,
But to myself they turned (since none puts by
the curtain I have drawn for you, but I) 10
And seemed as they would ask me, if they durst,
How such a glance came there; so, not the first
Are you to turn and ask thus.  Sir, ’twas not
Her husband’s presence only, called that spot
Of joy into the Duchess’ cheek:  perhaps
Fra Pandolf chanced to say “Her mantle laps
Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint
Must never hope to reproduce the faint
Half-flush that dies along her throat”; such stuff
Was courtesy, she thought, and cause enough 20
For calling up that spot of joy.  She had
A heart—­how shall I say—­too soon made glad,
Too easily impressed; she liked whate’er
She looked on, and her looks went everywhere. 
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, 30
Or blush, at least.  She thanked men—­good!