A Light Woman
So far as our story approaches the end,Which do you pity the most of us three?My friend, or the mistress of my friendWith her wanton eyes, or me?
My friend was already too good to lose,And seemed in the way of improvement yet,When she crossed his path with her hunting nooseAnd over him drew her net.
When I saw him tangled in her toils,A shame, said I, if she adds just himTo her nine-and-ninety other spoils,The hundredth for a whim!
And before my friend be wholly hers,How easy to prove to him, I said,An eagle's the game her pride prefers,Though she snaps at a wren instead!
So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take,My hand sought hers as in earnest need,And round she turned for my noble sake,And gave me herself indeed.
The eagle am I, with my fame in the world,The wren is he, with his maiden face.You look away and your lip is curled?Patience, a moment's space!
For see, my friend goes shaking and white;He eyes me as the basilisk:I have turned, it appears, his day to night,Eclipsing his sun's disk.
And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief:"Though I love her--that, he comprehends--One should master one's passions (love, in chief)And be loyal to one's friends!"
And she,--she lies in my hand as tameAs a pear late basking over a wall;Just a touch to try and off it came;'Tis mine,--can I let it fall?
With no mind to eat it, that's the worst!Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist?'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirstWhen I gave its stalk a twist.
And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see:What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess:What I seem to myself, do you ask of me?No hero, I confess.
'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls,And matter enough to save one's own:Yet think of my friend, and the burning coalsHe played with for bits of stone!
One likes to show the truth for the truth;That the woman was light is very true:But suppose she says,--Never mind that youth!What wrong have I done to you?
Well, any how, here the story stays,So far at least as I understand;And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays,Here's a subject made to your hand!
Words in this poem
- basilisk n.
- A fabulous serpent, or dragon. The ancients alleged that its hissing would drive away all other serpents, and that its breath, and even its look, was fatal. See Cockatrice. [L. basiliscus, Gr. little king, kind of serpent, dim. of king; -- so named from some prominences on the head resembling a crown.]
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
A Light Woman is in the public domain. This text is taken from Dramatic Romances, Project Gutenberg ebook #4253; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: Robert Browning, A Light Woman, in Dramatic Lyrics (1842), text of Project Gutenberg ebook #4253, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/browning-dramatic-lyrics/a-light-woman.html, id L03548.
Form and metre
A Light Woman is 56 lines in 14 stanzas of 4 lines each. The rhyme scheme is ABAB, complete in 13 of its 14 stanzas. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 79%). 92% of its stressed syllables fall where the metre puts the beat. The lines average 8.8 syllables. 1 line ends on an unstressed syllable, a feminine ending. 11% of the lines run on without a stop at the line end.
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 1 ABAB endA · threeB · friendA · meB
- 2 -A-A lose · yetA · noose · netA
- 3 ABAB toilsA · himB · spoilsA · whimB
- 4 ABAB hersA · saidB · prefersA · insteadB
- 5 ABAB takeA · needB · sakeA · indeedB
- 6 ABAB worldA · faceB · curledA · spaceB
- 7 ABAB whiteA · basiliskB · nightA · diskB
- 8 ABAB thiefA · comprehendsB · chiefA · friendsB
- 9 ABAB tameA · wallB · cameA · fallB
- 10 ABAB worstA · assistB · thirstA · twistB
- 11 ABAB seeA · guessB · meA · confessB
- 12 ABAB soulsA · ownB · coalsA · stoneB
- 13 ABAB truthA · trueB · youthA · youB
- 14 ABAB staysA · understandB · playsA · handB
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| So far as our story approaches the end, | 11 | ···//˘˘/˘·· |
| Which do you pity the most of us three? | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| My friend, or the mistress of my friend | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| With her wanton eyes, or me? | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| My friend was already too good to lose, | 10 | ···˘/˘···· |
| And seemed in the way of improvement yet, | 10 | ······˘/˘· |
| When she crossed his path with her hunting noose | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| And over him drew her net. | 7 | ······· |
| When I saw him tangled in her toils, | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| A shame, said I, if she adds just him | 9 | ········· |
| To her nine-and-ninety other spoils, | 9 | ····/˘/˘· |
| The hundredth for a whim! | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| And before my friend be wholly hers, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| How easy to prove to him, I said, | 9 | ·/˘······ |
| An eagle's the game her pride prefers, | 9 | ·/˘····˘/ |
| Though she snaps at a wren instead! | 8 | ······˘/ |
| So, I gave her eyes my own eyes to take, | 10 | ·········· |
| My hand sought hers as in earnest need, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| And round she turned for my noble sake, | 9 | ······/˘· |
| And gave me herself indeed. | 7 | ···˘/˘/ |
| The eagle am I, with my fame in the world, | 11 | ·/˘········ |
| The wren is he, with his maiden face. | 9 | ······/˘· |
| You look away and your lip is curled? | 9 | ··˘/····· |
| Patience, a moment's space! | 6 | /˘·/˘· |
| For see, my friend goes shaking and white; | 9 | ·····/˘·· |
| He eyes me as the basilisk: | 8 | ·····/˘˘ |
| I have turned, it appears, his day to night, | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| Eclipsing his sun's disk. | 6 | ˘/˘··· |
| And I did it, he thinks, as a very thief: | 11 | ········/˘· |
| "Though I love her--that, he comprehends-- | 9 | ·······˘/ |
| One should master one's passions (love, in chief) | 10 | ··/˘·/˘··· |
| And be loyal to one's friends!" | 7 | ··/˘··· |
| And she,--she lies in my hand as tame | 9 | ········· |
| As a pear late basking over a wall; | 9 | ····/˘··· |
| Just a touch to try and off it came; | 9 | ········· |
| 'Tis mine,--can I let it fall? | 7 | ······· |
| With no mind to eat it, that's the worst! | 9 | ········· |
| Were it thrown in the road, would the case assist? | 11 | ·········˘/ |
| 'Twas quenching a dozen blue-flies' thirst | 9 | ·/˘·/˘··· |
| When I gave its stalk a twist. | 7 | ······· |
| And I,--what I seem to my friend, you see: | 10 | ·········· |
| What I soon shall seem to his love, you guess: | 10 | ·········· |
| What I seem to myself, do you ask of me? | 11 | ·····/····· |
| No hero, I confess. | 6 | ·/˘·˘/ |
| 'Tis an awkward thing to play with souls, | 9 | ··/˘····· |
| And matter enough to save one's own: | 9 | ·/˘˘/···· |
| Yet think of my friend, and the burning coals | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| He played with for bits of stone! | 8 | ··˘····· |
| One likes to show the truth for the truth; | 9 | ········· |
| That the woman was light is very true: | 10 | ··/˘···/˘· |
| But suppose she says,--Never mind that youth! | 9 | ·˘/··/··· |
| What wrong have I done to you? | 7 | ······· |
| Well, any how, here the story stays, | 9 | ·/˘···/˘· |
| So far at least as I understand; | 9 | ·······˘/ |
| And, Robert Browning, you writer of plays, | 9 | ·/˘/˘·/·· |
| Here's a subject made to your hand! | 8 | ··˘/···· |
On this poem
"A Light Woman" is the story of a dramatic situation brought about by the speaker's intermeddling to save his less sophisticated friend from a light woman's toils. He deflects her interest and wins her heart, and this is the ironical outcome: his friendly, dispassionate act makes him seem to his friend a disloyal passion's slave; his scorn of the light woman teaches him her genuineness, and proves himself lighter than she; his futile assumption of the god manoeuvring souls makes the whole story dramatically imply, in a way dear to Browning's heart, the sacredness and worth of each individuality.
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.