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