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That’s my last Duchess painted on the wall, Looking as if she were alive. I call That piece a wonder, now; Fra Pandolf’s hands Worked busily a day, and there she stands.
Fra Pandolf chanced to say, “Her mantle laps Over my lady’s wrist too much,” or “Paint Must never hope to reproduce the faint Half-flush that dies along her throat
I gave commands; Then all smiles stopped together.
Though his fair daughter’s self,Of mine for dowry will be disallowed; Is ample warrant that no just pretense The Count your master’s known munificence The company below
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