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Punch, or the London Charivari, Volume 153, October 24, 1917 by Various
page 22 of 57 (38%)
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,
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