Quite clear to such an one, and say “Just this
“Or that in you disgusts me; here you miss,
“Or there exceed the mark”—­and if she let
Herself be lessoned so, nor plainly set
Her wits to yours, forsooth, and made excuse,
—­E’en then would be some stooping; and I choose
Never to stoop.  Oh, Sir, she smiled, no doubt,
Whene’er I passed her; but who passed without
Much the same smile?  This grew; I gave commands;
Then all smiles stopped together.  There she stands
As if alive.  Will’t please you rise?  We’ll meet
The company below, then.  I repeat
The Count your Master’s known munificence
Is ample warrant that no just pretence
Of mine for dowry will be disallowed;
Though his fair daughter’s self, as I avowed
At starting, is my object.  Nay, we’ll go
Together down, Sir.  Notice Neptune, though,
Taming a sea-horse, thought a rarity,
Which Claus of Innsbruck cast in bronze for me!

ROBERT BROWNING.

* * * * *

“THE TALE.”

What a pretty tale you told me
  Once upon a time
—­Said you found it somewhere (scold me!)
  Was it prose or rhyme,
Greek or Latin?  Greek, you said,
While your shoulder propped my head.

Anyhow there’s no forgetting
  This much if no more,
That a poet (pray, no petting!)
  Yes, a bard, sir, famed of yore,
Went where such like used to go,
Singing for a prize, you know.

Well, he had to sing, nor merely
  Sing, but play the lyre;
Playing was important clearly
  Quite as singing; I desire,
Sir, you keep the fact in mind
For a purpose that’s behind.

There stood he, while deep attention
  Held the judges round,
—­Judges able, I should mention,
  To detect the slightest sound
Sung or played amiss:  such ears
Had old judges, it appears!

None the less he sang out boldly,
  Played in time and tune
Till the judges, weighing coldly
  Each note’s worth, seemed, late or soon,
Sure to smile “In vain one tries
Picking faults out:  take the prize!”

When, a mischief!  Were they seven
  Strings the lyre possessed? 
Oh, and afterwards eleven,
  Thank you!  Well, sir—­who had guessed
Such ill luck in store?—­it happed
One of those same seven strings snapped.

All was lost, then!  No! a cricket
  (What “cicada”?  Pooh!)
—­Some mad thing that left its thicket
  For mere love of music—­flew
With its little heart on fire
Lighted on the crippled lyre.

So that when (Ah, joy!) our singer
  For his truant string
Feels with disconcerted finger,
  What does cricket else but fling
Fiery heart forth, sound the note
Wanted by the throbbing throat?

Ay and, ever to the ending,
  Cricket chirps at need,
Executes the hand’s intending,
  Promptly, perfectly,—­indeed
Saves the singer from defeat
With her chirrup low and sweet.