Parade my studies, fifty in a row,
As though the Court were yet in pupilage,
Claimed not the artist's ultimate appeal?
Much rather let me soar the height prescribed
And, bowing low, proffer my picture's self!
No more of proof, disproof,—such virtue was,
Such vice was never in Pompilia, now!
(Far better say "Behold Pompilia!"—for
I leave the family as unmanageable,
And stick to just one portrait, but life-size.)