Robert Browning -- THE LABORATORY

THE LABORATORY

                                                                       Robert Browning (1812-1889)

            I
            
            OW that I, tying thy glass mask tightly,
            May gaze thro' these faint smokes curling whitely,
            As thou pliest thy trade in this devil's-smithy--
            Which is the poison to poison her, prithee?
            
            II
            
            He is with her; and they know that I know
            Where they are, what they do: they believe my tears flow
            While they laugh, laugh at me, at me fled to the drear
            Empty church, to pray God in, for them! -- I am here.
            
            III
            
            Grind away, moisten and mash up thy paste,
            Pound at thy powder, -- I am not in haste!
            Better sit thus, and observe thy strange things,
            Than go where men wait me and dance at the King's.
            
            IV
            
            That in the mortar -- you call it a gum?
            Ah, the brave tree whence such gold oozings come!
            And yonder soft phial, the exquisite blue,
            Sure to taste sweetly, -- is that poison too?
            
            V
            
            Had I but all of them, thee and thy treasures,
            What a wild crowd of invisible pleasures!
            To carry pure death in an earring, a casket,
            A signet, a fan-mount, a filligree-basket!
            
            VI
            
            Soon, at the King's, a mere lozenge to give
            And Pauline should have just thirty minutes to live!
            But to light a pastille, and Elise, with her head
            And her breast and her arms and her hands, should drop dead!
            
            VII
            
            Quick -- is it finished? The colour's too grim!
            Why not soft like the phial's, enticing and dim?
            Let it brighten her drink, let her turn it and stir,
            And try it and taste, ere she fix and prefer!
            
            VIII
            
            What a drop! She's not little, no minion like me--
            That's why she ensnared him: this never will free
            The soul from those masculine eyes, -- say, 'no!'
            To that pulse's magnificent come-and-go.
            
            IX
            
            For only last night, as they whispered, I brought
            My own eyes to bear on her so, that I thought
            Could I keep them one half minute fixed, she would fall,
            Shrivelled; she fell not; yet this does not all!
            
            X
            
            Not that I bid you spare her the pain!
            Let death be felt and the proof remain;
            Brand, burn up, bite into its grace--
            He is sure to remember her dying face!
            
            XI
            
            Is it done? Take my mask off! Nay, be not morose
            It kills her, and this prevents seeing it close:
            The delicate droplet, my whole fortune's fee--
            If it hurts her, beside, can it ever hurt me?
            
            XII
            
            Now, take all my jewels, gorge gold to your fill,
            You may kiss me, old man, on my mouth if you will!
            But brush this dust off me, lest horror it brings
            Ere I know it -- next moment I dance at the King's!