“Brother James,” forthwith importuned the King, waggishly, “will you favour me with your lily-white hand for the next dance? I am driven to extremity.”
“Pardon, Sire,” replied James, quite humorously for him, “I am engaged to a handsomer man.”
“Odsfish,” laughed Charles, “King Charles of England a wall-flower. Come, Rochester, my epitaph.”
The King threw himself into a chair, in an attitude of hopeless resignation, quite delicious.
Rochester perked up with the conceit and humour of the situation. With the utmost dignity, and with the quizzical, pinched brow of the labouring muse, halting at each line, he said:
“Here lies our sovereign lord, the King,
Whose word no man relies on;
Who never said a foolish thing,
And never did a wise one!”
The post-mortem verse was sufficiently subtle and clever to revive the King’s drooping spirits; and he joined heartily in the applause.
“The matter,” he said, approvingly, “is easily accounted for–my discourse is my own, my actions are my Ministry’s.”
There was a frou-frou of petticoats. The hostess entered gaily.
“The King! The courtiers! Unmasked!” she exclaimed, in coy reproof. “Fy, fy, your Majesty! For shame! Gallants! Are you children that I must pair you off?”