But of this more anon, or rather never.

All that the world could vaunt for its endeavour

Was the fair promise of her ankles set

Upon a pair of small high-instepped feet,

In whose behalf, though modestly, God wot,

As any nun, she raised her petticoat

One little inch more high than reason meet

Was for one crossing a well-besomed street.

This was the only tribute she allowed

To human folly and the envious crowd;

11

Nor for my part would I be found her judge

For her one weakness, nor appear to grudge

What in myself, as surely in the rest,

Bred strange sweet fancies such as feet suggest.

We owe her all too much. This point apart,

Griselda, modesty's own counterpart,

Moved in the sphere of folly like a star,

Aloof and bright and most particular.

By girlish choice and whim of her first will

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