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AURORA LEIGH.
So, please you, be fanatical in love,And I'm well pleased. Ah, cousin! at the old hall,Among the gallery portraits of our Leighs,We shall not find a sweeter signoryThan this pure forehead's.'Not a word he said.How arrogant men are!—Even philanthropists,Who try to take a wife up in the wayThey put down a subscription-cheque,—if onceShe turns and says, 'I will not tax you so,Most charitable sir,'—feel ill at ease,As though she had wronged them somehow. I supposeWe women should remember what we are,And not throw back an obolus inscribedWith Cæsar's image, lightly. I resumed.
'It strikes me, some of those sublime VandykesWere not too proud, to make good saints in heaven;And, if so, then they're not too proud to-dayTo bow down (now the ruffs are off their necks)And own this good, true, noble Marian, . . yours,And mine, I'll say!—For poets (bear the word)Half-poets even, are still whole democrats,—Oh, not that we're disloyal to the high,But loyal to the low, and cognisantOf the less scrutable majesties. For me,I comprehend your choice—I justifyYour right in choosing.''No, no, no' he sighed,With a sort of melancholy impatient scorn,
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