While hand and eye and something of a heart
Are left me, work 's my ware, and what's it worth?
I'll pay my fancy. Only let me sit
The gray remainder of the evening out,
Idle, you call it, and müse perfectly
How I could paint were I but back in France,
One picture, just one more the Virgin's face,
Not your's this time! I want you at my side
To hear them that is, Michael Angelo –
Judge all I do and tell you of its worth.
Will you? To-morrow, satisfy your friend.
I take the subjects for his corridor,
Finish the portrait out of hand
And throw him in another thing or two
If he demurs; the whole should prove enough
To pay for this same Cousin's freak. Beside,
What's better and what's all I care about,
Get you the thirteen scudi for the ruff.
Love, does that please you? Ah, but what does he,
The Cousin! what does he to please you more?
I am grown peaceful as old age to-night.
I regret little, I would change still less.
Since there my past life lies, why alter it?
The very wrong to Francis! it is true
I took his coin, was tempted and complied,
And built this house and sinned, and all is said.
My father and my mother died of want.
Well, had I riches of my own? you see
How one gets rich! Let each one bear his lot.
They were born poor, lived poor, and poor they died:
And I have laboured somewhat in my time
And not been paid profusely. Some good son
Paint my two hundred pictures - let him try!
No doubt, there's something strikes a balance. Yes,
You loved me quite enough, it seems to-night.
This must suffice me here. What would one have?
In heaven, perhaps, new chances, one more chance
Four great walls in the New Jerusalem
Meted on each side by the angel's reed,
For Leonard, Rafael, Angelo and me
To cover the three first without a wife,
While I have mine! So
Because there's still Lucrezia,
Again the Cousin's whistle! Go, my Love.
LET them fight it out, friend! things have gone too far
God must judge the couple! leave them as they are
Whichever one's the guiltless, to his glory,
And whichever one the guilt 's with, to my story.
Why, you would not bid mea, sunk in such a slough, Strike no arm out further, stick and stink as now, Leaving right and wrong to settle the embroilment, Heaven with snaky Hell, in torture and entoilment?
Which of them 's the culprit, how must he conceive God's the queen he caps to, laughing in his sleeve ! 'Tis but decent to profess one's self beneath her. Still, one must not be too much in earnest either.
Better sin the whole sin, sure that God observes, Then go live his life out! life will try his nerves, When the sky which noticed all, makes no disclosure And the earth keeps up her terrible composure.
Let him pace at pleasure, past the walls of rose,
Pluck their fruits when grape-trees graze him as he goes.
For he 'gins to guess the purpose of the garden,
With the sly mute thing beside there for a warden.
What's the leopard-dog-thing, constant to his side,
A leer and lie in every eye on its obsequious hide?
When will come an end of all the mock obeisance,
And the price appear that pays for the misfeasance?
So much for the culprit. Who's the martyred man?
Let him bear one stroke more, for be sure he can.
He that strove thus evil's lump with good to leaven,
Let him give his blood at last and get his heaven.
All or nothing, stake it! trusts he God or no?
Thus far and no further? further? be it so.
Now, enough of your chicane of prudent pauses,
Sage provisos, sub-intents, and saving-clauses.
Ah, "forgive" you bid him? While God's champion lives,
Wrong shall be resisted: dead, why he forgives.
But you must not end my friend ere you begin him ;
Evil stands not crowned on earth, while breath is in him.
Will the wronger, at this last of all,
Dare to say "I did wrong," rising in his fall?
No? — Let go, then both the fighters to their places— While I count three, step you back as many paces.
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