Volume 153 — BEASTS ROYAL.

The paven terrace of Versailles With tub and orange-tree, And Dian's fountain tossed awry, Were planned and made for me; Since no one half so well as I Could grace their symmetry, Nor teach admiring man The genuine pavane. I know that when King Louis wears A Roman kilt and casque His smile hides many secret tears In ballet and in masque, Since to outshine my pomp appears So desperate a task, And royal robes look pale Beside my noble tail. With turquoise and with malachite, With bronze and purple pied, I march before him like the night In all its starry pride; LULLI may twang and MOLIÈRE write His pastime to provide, But seldom laughs the KING So much as when I sing. His fiddles brown and pipes of brass May LULLI now forsake, While I make music on the grass Before the storm-clouds break; He stops his ears and cries "Alas!" Because he cannot make With all his fiddlers fine A melody like mine. LE BRUN is watching me, I know, His palette on his thumb, To catch the glory and the glow That dazzle as I come; So be it—but let MOLIÈRE go, And LULLI crack his drum; They do but waste their time; Minstrel I am, and mime. Men say the KING is like the sun, And from his wig they spin The golden webs that, one by one, Draw Spain and Flanders in; He will grow proud ere they have done, A most egregious sin, And one to which my mind Has never yet declined.