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Guido by Robert Browning

You are the Cardinal Acciaiuoli, and you,


    Abate Panciatichi two good Tuscan names:


    Acciaiuoli ah, your ancestor it was,


    Built the huge battlemented convent-block


    Over the little forky flashing Greve


    That takes the quick turn at the foot oĺ the hill


    Just as one first sees Florence: oh those days!


    ĺTis Ema, though, the other rivulet,


    The one-arched, brown brick bridge yawns over, yes,


    Gallop and go five minutes, and you gain


    The Roman Gate from where the Emaĺs bridged:


    Kingfishers fly there: how I see the bend


    Oĺerturreted by Certosa which he built,


    That Senescal (we styled him) of your House!


    I do adjure you, help me, Sirs! My blood


    Comes from as far a source: ought it to end


    This way, by leakage through their scaffold-planks


    Into Romeĺs sink where her red refuse runs?


    Sirs, I beseech you by blood-sympathy,


    If there be any vile experiment


    In the air, if this your visit simply prove,


    When allĺs done, just a well-intentioned trick,


    That tries for truth truer than truth itself,


    By startling up a man, ere break of day,


    To tell him he must die at sunset, pshaw!


    That manĺs a Franceschini; feel his pulse,


    Laugh at your folly, and letĺs all go sleep!


    You have my last word, innocent am I


    As Innocent my Pope and murderer,


    Innocent as a babe, as Maryĺs own,


    As Maryĺs self, I said, say and repeat,


    And why, then, should I die twelve hours hence? I


    Whom, not twelve hours ago, the gaoler bade


    Turn to my straw-truss, settle and sleep sound


    That I might wake the sooner, promptlier pay


    His dues of meat-and-drink-indulgence, cross


    His palm with fee of the good-hand, beside,


    As gallants use who go at large again!


    For why? All honest Rome approved my part;


    Whoever owned wife, sister, daughter, nay,


    Mistress, had any shadow of any right


    That looks like right, and, all the more resolved,


    Held it with tooth and nail, these manly men


    Approved! I being for Rome, Rome was for me!


    Then, thereĺs the point reserved, the subterfuge


    My lawyers held by, kept for last resource,


    Firm should all else, the impossible fancy! fail,


    And sneaking burgess-spirit win the day:


    The knaves! One plea at least would hold, they laughed,


    One grappling-iron scratch the bottom-rock


    Even should the middle mud let anchor go


    And hook my cause on to the Clergyĺs, plea


    Which, even if law tipped off my hat and plume,


    Would show my priestly tonsure, save me so,


    The Pope moreover, this old Innocent,


    Being so meek and mild and merciful,


    So fond oĺ the poor and so fatigued of earth,


    So . . . fifty thousand devils in deepest hell!


    Why must he cure us of our strange conceit


    Of the angel in manĺs likeness, that we loved


    And looked should help us at a pinch? He help?


    He pardon? Hereĺs his mind and message death,


    Thank the good Pope! Now, is he good in this,


    Never mind, Christian, no such stuffĺs extant,


    But will my death do credit to his reign,


    Show he both lived and let live, so was good?


    Cannot I live if he but like? ĹThe law!ĺ


    Why, just the law gives him the very chance,


    The precise leave to let my life alone,


    Which the angelic soul of him (he says)


    Yearns after! Here they drop it in his palm,


    My lawyers, capital oĺ the cursed kind,


    A life to take and hold and keep: but no!


    He sighs, shakes head, refuses to shut hand,


    Motions away the gift they bid him grasp,


    And of the coyness comes that off I run


    And down I go, he best knows whither, mind,


    He knows, and sets me rolling all the same!


    Disinterested Vicar of our Lord,


    This way he abrogates and disallows,


    Nullifies and ignores, reverts in fine


    To the good and right, in detriment of me!


    Talk away! Will you have the naked truth?


    Heĺs sick of his lifeĺs supper, swallowed lies:


    So, hobbling bedward, needs must ease his maw


    Just where I sit oĺ the door-sill. Sir Abate,


    Can you do nothing? Friends, we used to frisk:


    What of this sudden slash in a friendĺs face,


    This cut across our good companionship


    That showed its front so gay when both were young?


    Were not we put into a beaten path,


    Bid pace the world, we nobles born and bred,


    The body of friends with each his scutcheon full


    Of old achievement and impunity,


    Taking the laugh of morn and Solĺs salute


    As forth we fared, pricked on to breathe our steeds


    And take equestrian sport over the green


    Under the blue, across the crop, what care?


    So we went prancing up hill and down dale,


    In and out of the level and the straight,


    By the bit of pleasant byeway, where was harm