To all old husbands that wed brisk young wives,
And he 'll go duly docile all his days.
"Somebody courts your wife, Count? Where and when?
How and why? Mere horn-madness: have a care!
Your lady loves her own room, sticks to it,
Locks herself in for hours, you say yourself.
And—what, it 's Caponsacchi means you harm?
The Canon? We caress him, he 's the world's,
A man of such acceptance,—never dream,
Though he were fifty times the fox you fear,