’In Paris, at the Louvre, there have I seen
     The sumptuously-feathered angel pierce
     Prone Lucifer, descending.  Looked he fierce,
     Showing the fight a fair one?  Too serene! 
     The young Pharsalians did not disarray
     Less willingly their locks of floating silk: 
     That suckling mouth of his upon the milk
     Of heaven might still be feasting through the fray. 
     Oh, Raphael! when men the Fiend do fight,
     They conquer not upon such easy terms. 
     Half serpent in the struggle grow these worms. 
     And does he grow half human, all is right.’ 
     This to my Lady in a distant spot,
     Upon the theme:  While mind is mastering clay,
     gross clay invades it.  If the spy you play,
     My wife, read this!  Strange love talk, is it not?

     XXXIV

     Madam would speak with me.  So, now it comes: 
     The Deluge or else Fire!  She’s well; she thanks
     My husbandship.  Our chain on silence clanks. 
     Time leers between, above his twiddling thumbs. 
     Am I quite well?  Most excellent in health! 
     The journals, too, I diligently peruse. 
     Vesuvius is expected to give news: 
     Niagara is no noisier.  By stealth
     Our eyes dart scrutinizing snakes.  She’s glad
     I’m happy, says her quivering under-lip. 
     ‘And are not you?’ ‘How can I be?’ ’Take ship! 
     For happiness is somewhere to be had.’ 
     ‘Nowhere for me!’ Her voice is barely heard. 
     I am not melted, and make no pretence. 
     With commonplace I freeze her, tongue and sense. 
     Niagara or Vesuvius is deferred.

     XXXV

     It is no vulgar nature I have wived. 
     Secretive, sensitive, she takes a wound
     Deep to her soul, as if the sense had swooned,
     And not a thought of vengeance had survived. 
     No confidences has she:  but relief
     Must come to one whose suffering is acute. 
     O have a care of natures that are mute! 
     They punish you in acts:  their steps are brief. 
     What is she doing?  What does she demand
     From Providence or me?  She is not one
     Long to endure this torpidly, and shun
     The drugs that crowd about a woman’s hand. 
     At Forfeits during snow we played, and I
     Must kiss her.  ‘Well performed!’ I said:  then she: 
     “Tis hardly worth the money, you agree?’
     Save her?  What for?  To act this wedded lie!

     XXXVI

     My Lady unto Madam makes her bow. 
     The charm of women is, that even while
     You’re probed by them for tears, you yet may smile,
     Nay, laugh outright, as I have done just now. 
     The interview was gracious:  they anoint
     (To me aside) each other with fine praise: 
     Discriminating compliments they raise,