A Light Woman
I.
So
far
as
our
story
approaches
the
end,
Which
do
you
pity
the
most
of
us
three?—-
My
friend,
or
the
mistress
of
my
friend
With
her
wanton
eyes,
or
me?
II.
My
friend
was
already
too
good
to
lose,
And
seemed
in
the
way
of
improvement
yet,
When
she
crossed
his
path
with
her
hunting-noose
And
over
him
drew
her
net.
III.
When
I
saw
him
tangled
in
her
toils,
A
shame,
said
I,
if
she
adds
just
him
To
her
nine-and-ninety
other
spoils,
The
hundredth
for
a
whim!
IV.
And
before
my
friend
be
wholly
hers,
How
easy
to
prove
to
him,
I
said,
An
eagle's
the
game
her
pride
prefers,
Though
she
snaps
at
a
wren
instead!
V.
So,
I
gave
her
eyes
my
own
eyes
to
take,
My
hand
sought
hers
as
in
earnest
need,
And
round
she
turned
for
my
noble
sake,
And
gave
me
herself
indeed.
VI.
The
eagle
am
I,
with
my
fame
in
the
world,
The
wren
is
he,
with
his
maiden
face.
—-You
look
away
and
your
lip
is
curled?
Patience,
a
moment's
space!
VII.
For
see,
my
friend
goes
shaling
and
white;
He
eyes
me
as
the
basilisk:
I
have
turned,
it
appears,
his
day
to
night,
Eclipsing
his
sun's
disk.
VIII.
And
I
did
it,
he
thinks,
as
a
very
thief:
``Though
I
love
her—-that,
he
comprehends—-
``One
should
master
one's
passions,
(love,
in
chief)
``And
be
loyal
to
one's
friends!''
IX.
And
she,—-she
lies
in
my
hand
as
tame
As
a
pear
late
basking
over
a
wall;
Just
a
touch
to
try
and
off
it
came;
'Tis
mine,—-can
I
let
it
fall?
X.
With
no
mind
to
eat
it,
that's
the
worst!
Were
it
thrown
in
the
road,
would
the
case
assist?
'Twas
quenching
a
dozen
blue-flies'
thirst
When
I
gave
its
stalk
a
twist.
XI.
And
I,—-what
I
seem
to
my
friend,
you
see:
What
I
soon
shall
seem
to
his
love,
you
guess:
What
I
seem
to
myself,
do
you
ask
of
me?
No
hero,
I
confess.
XII.
'Tis
an
awkward
thing
to
play
with
souls,
And
matter
enough
to
save
one's
own:
Yet
think
of
my
friend,
and
the
burning
coals
He
played
with
for
bits
of
stone!
XIII.
One
likes
to
show
the
truth
for
the
truth;
That
the
woman
was
light
is
very
true:
But
suppose
she
says,—-Never
mind
that
youth!
What
wrong
have
I
done
to
you?
XIV.
Well,
any
how,
here
the
story
stays,
So
far
at
least
as
I
understand;
And,
Robert
Browning,
you
writer
of
plays,
Here's
a
subject
made
to
your
hand!
Robert Browning
Robert Browning (born May 7, 1812, London—died Dec. 12, 1889, Venice) major English poet of the Victorian age, noted for his mastery of dramatic monologue and psychological portraiture. His most noted work was The Ring and the Book (1868–69), the story of a Roman murder trial in 12 books. Through all the vicissitudes of critical reputation, however, Browning’s major contribution to the canon of children’s literature, “The Pied Piper of Hamelin,” has retained its popular audience. At the time of his death in 1889, he was one of the most popular poets in England.