Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/214

Rh Pursued their talk, without a word being thrown To the critic. Good Sir Blaise’s brow is high And noticeably narrow; a strong wind, You fancy, might unroof him suddenly, And blow that great top attic off his head So piled with feudal relics. You admire His nose in profile, though you miss his chin; But, though you miss his chin, you seldom miss His golden cross worn innermostly, (carved For penance, by a saintly Styrian monk Whose flesh was too much with him,) slipping trough Some unaware unbuttoned casualty Of the under-waistcoat. With an absent air Sir Blaise sate fingering it and speaking low, While I, upon the sofa, heard it all.

‘My dear young friend, if we could bear our eyes Like blessedest St. Lucy, on a plate, They would not trick us into choosing wives, As doublets, by the colour. Otherwise Our fathers chose,—and therefore, when they had hung Their household keys about a lady’s waist, The sense of duty gave her dignity: She kept her bosom holy to her babes; And, if a moralist reproved her dress, ’twas, ‘Too much starch!’—and not, ‘Too little lawn!’’

‘Now, pshaw!’ returned the other in a heat, A little fretted by being called ‘young friend,’