BEASTS ROYAL.
v.
KING LOUIS' PEACOCK. A.D. 1678.
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.