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This poem was published first in 1855 as an independent issue. A correspondent of an American paper once asked the following questions respecting this poem:

"1. When, how, and where did it happen? Browning's divine vagueness lets one gather only that the lady's husband was a Riccardi. 2. Who was the lady? who the duke? 3. The magnificent house wherein Florence lodges her préfet is known to all Florentine ball-goers as the Palazzo Riccardi. It was bought by the Riccardi from the Medici in 1659. From none of its windows did the lady gaze at her more than royal lover. From what window, then, if from any? Are the statue and the bust still in their original positions?"

The letter fell into the hands of Mr. Thomas J. Wise, who sent it to Mr. Browning, and received the following answer.

Jan. 8, 1887.

3. As it

DEAR MR. WISE, I have seldom met with such a strange inability to understand what seems the plainest matter possible: "ball-goers" are probably not history-readers, but any guide-book would confirm what is sufficiently stated in the poem. I will append a note or two, however. 1. "This story the townsmen tell"; "when, how, and where," constitutes the subject of the poem. 2. The lady was the wife of Riccardi ; and the duke, Ferdinand, just as the poem says. was built by, and inhabited by, the Medici till sold, long after, to the Riccardi, it was not from the duke's palace, but a window in that of the Riccardi, that the lady gazed at her lover riding by. The statue is still in its place, looking at the window under which "now is the empty shrine." Can anything be clearer? My vagueness "leaves what to be "gathered" when all these things are put down in black and white? Oh, "ball-goers" !

THERE's a palace in Florence, the world knows well,

And a statue watches it from the square, And this story of both do our townsmen tell.

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She turned on her side and slept. Just so!
So we resolve on a thing and sleep:
So did the lady, ages ago.

That night the Duke said, "Dear or cheap
As the cost of this cup of bliss may prove
To body or soul, I will drain it deep."

And on the morrow, bold with love, He beckoned the bridegroom (close on call,

As his duty bade, by the Duke's alcove) 90

And smiled, ""T was a very funeral,
Your lady will think, this feast of ours,
A shame to efface, whate'er befall!

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Meantime, worse fates than a lover's fate, Who daily may ride and pass and look Where his lady watches behind the grate!

And she-she watched the square like a book

Holding one picture and only one,
Which daily to find she undertook:

When the picture was reached the book was done,

And she turned from the picture at night to scheme

Of tearing it out for herself next sun. 150

So weeks grew months, years; gleam by gleam

The glory dropped from their youth and love, And both perceived they had dreamed a

dream;

Which hovered as dreams do, still above: But who can take a dream for a truth? Oh, hide our eyes from the next remove!

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Why, one, sir, who is lodging with a friend Three streets off-he's a certain .

how d' ye call?

Mastera. . . Cosimo of the Medici, I' the house that caps the corner. Boh! you were best!

Remember and tell me, the day you 're hanged,

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How you affected such a gullet's-gripe! But you, sir, it concerns you that your knaves

Pick up a manner, nor discredit you: Zooks, are we pilchards, that they sweep the streets

And count fair prize what comes into their net?

He's Judas to a tittle, that man is!

Just such a face! Why, sir, you make amends.

Lord, I'm not angry! Bid your hangdogs go

Drink out this quarter-florin to the health Of the munificent House that harbors me (And many more beside, lads! more beside!)

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And all's come square again. I'd like his face

His, elbowing on his comrade in the door With the pike and lantern, for the slave

that holds

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Flower o' the rose,

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If I've been merry, what matter who knows?
And so as I was stealing back again
To get to bed and have a bit of sleep
Ere I rise up to-morrow and go work
On Jerome knocking at his poor old breast
With his great round stone to subdue the

flesh,

You snap me of the sudden. Ah, I see! Though your eye twinkles still, you shake your head

Mine's shaved a monk, you say the sting's in that!

If Master Cosimo announced himself, Mum's the word naturally; but a monk! Come, what am I a beast for? tell us,

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I was a baby when my mother died
And father died and left me in the street.
I starved there, God knows how, a year or

two

On fig-skins, melon - parings, rinds and shucks,

Refuse and rubbish. One fine frosty day,
My stomach being empty as your hat,
The wind doubled me up and down I went.

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