To wear, each for the other’s sake—­ 780
This, see, which at my breast I wear,
Ever did (rather to Jacynth’s grudgment),
And ever shall, till the Day of Judgment. 
And then-and then—­to cut short—­this is idle,
        These are feelings it is not good to foster—­
I pushed the gate wide, she shook the bridle,
        And the palfrey bounded—­and so we lost her.

XVI

When the liquor’s out why clink the cannikin? 
I did think to describe you the panic in
The redoubtable breast of our master the mannikin, 790
And what was the pitch of his mother’s yellowness,
        How she turned as a shark to snap the spare-rib
        Clean off, sailors say, from a pearl-diving Carib,
When she heard, what she called the flight of the feloness
—­But it seems such child’s play,
What they said and did with the lady away! 
And to dance on, when we’ve lost the music,
Always made me—­and no doubt makes you—­sick. 
Nay, to my mind, the world’s face looked so stern
As that sweet form disappeared through the postern, 800
She that kept it in constant good humour,
It ought to have stopped; there seemed nothing to do more. 
But the world thought otherwise and went on,
And my head’s one that its spite was spent on: 
Thirty years are fled since that morning,
And with them all my head’s adorning. 
Nor did the old Duchess die outright,
As you expect, of suppressed spite,
The natural end of every adder
Not suffered to empty its poison-bladder:  810
But she and her son agreed, I take it,
That no one should touch on the story to wake it,
For the wound in the Duke’s pride rankled fiery,
So, they made no search and small inquiry—­
And when fresh Gipsies have paid us a visit, I’ve
Notice the couple were never inquisitive,
But told them they’re folks the Duke don’t want here,
And bade them make haste and cross the frontier. 
Brief, the Duchess was gone and the Duke was glad of it,
        And the old one was in the young one’s stead, 820
        And took, in her place, the household’s head,
And a blessed time the household had of it! 
And were I not, as a man may say, cautious
How I trench, more than needs, on the nauseous,
I could favour you with sundry touches
Of the paint-smutches with which the Duchess
Heightened the mellowness of her cheek’s yellowness
(To get on faster) until at last her
Cheek grew to be one master-plaster
Of mucus and fucus from mere use of ceruse:  830
In short, she grew from scalp to udder
Just the object to make you shudder.

XVII