Page:Aurora Leigh a Poem.djvu/117

Of mismade human nature. Grant the man
Twice godlike, twice heroic,—still he limps,
And here’s the point we come to.’
‘Pardon me,
But, Lady Waldemar, the point’s the thing
We never come to.’
‘Caustic, insolent
At need! I like you’—(there, she took my hands)
‘And now my lioness, help Androcles,
For all your roaring. Help me! for myself
I would not say so—but for him. He limps
So certainly, he’ll fall into the pit
A week hence,—so I lose him—so he is lost!
And when he’s fairly married, he a Leigh,
To a girl of doubtful life, undoubtful birth,
Starved out in London, till her coarse-grained hands
Are whiter than her morals,—you, for one,
May call his choice most worthy.’
‘Married! lost!
He, . . . Romney!’
‘Ah, you’re moved at last,’ she said.
‘These monsters, set out in the open sun,
Of course throw monstrous shadows: those who think
Awry, will scarce act straightly. Who but he?
And who but you can wonder? He has been mad,
The whole world knows, since first, a nominal man,
He soured the proctors, tried the gownsmen’s wits,
With equal scorn of triangles and wine,
And took no honours, yet was honourable.

They’ll tell you he lost count of Homer’s ships