No foreigner, that I can recollect,

Came, as she says, a month since, to inspect
Our silk-mills—none with blue eyes and thick rings
Of English-coloured hair, at all events.

Well, if old Luca keeps his good intents,
We shall do better: see what next year brings!
I may buy shoes, my Zanze, not appear
More destitute than you, perhaps, next year!
Bluph. . . . something! I had caught the uncouth name
But for Monsignor's people's sudden clatter

Above us—bound to spoil such idle chatter
As ours; it were, indeed, a serious matter
If silly talk like ours should put to shame
The pious man, the man devoid of blame,
The...ah, but—ah, but, all the same,
No mere mortal has a right

To carry that exalted air;
Best people are not angels quite:
While—not the worst of people's doings scare
The devil; so there's that proud look to spare!
Which is mere counsel to myself, mind! for
I have just been the holy Monsignor!
And I was you too, Luigi's gentle mother,

And you too, Luigi!—how that Luigi started
Out of the Turret—doubtlessly departed
On some good errand or another,
For he pass'd just now in a traveller's trim
And the sullen company that prowled
About his path, I noticed, scowled
As if they had lost a prey in him.

And I was Jules the sculptor's bride,
And I was Ottima beside,
And now what am I?—tired of fooling!
Day for folly, night for schooling!