And something of DOLLY one still may trace In the fresh contours of his "Milkmaid's" face. GEORGE the Guard fled over the sea: Turned King's evidence, sad to state;- As for the BEAU, he was duly tried, Served for a day-as the last of "sights," Went on his way to TYBURN TREE, Every privilege rank confers : Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchre's; Flagon of ale at Holborn Bar; Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car("t" is omitted where HEROES are!) Every one knows the speech he made; Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat: Turned to the Topsman undismayed And this is the Ballad that seemed to hide 66 Humbly Inscrib'd (with curls and tails) By the Author to FREDERICK, Prince of WALES : "Published by FRANCIS and OLIVER PINE; Ludgate-Hill, at the Blackmoor Sign. Seventeen-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nine." UNE MARQUISE A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE "Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'an amour. Mute at every word you utter, Servants to your least frill-flutter, "Belle Marquise !”. As you sit there growing prouder, And your ringed hands glance and go, And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder, And your "beaux yeux" flash and glow;— Ah, you used them on the Painter, As you know, For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter, Bowing low, Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy That each sitter was not Circe, Or at least he told you so ;— Growing proud, I say, and prouder Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, Do we love you most, or like you, "Belle Marquise ? » II You are fair; O yes, we know it Well, Marquise : For he swore it, your last poet, On his knees; And he called all heaven to witness Of his ballad and its fitness, "Belle Marquise !". You were everything in ère You were "Reine," and "Mère d'Amour"; Lent of blood and courtly race; And he added, too, in duty, Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty; And La Vallière's yeux veloutés Followed these; And you liked it, when he said it (On his knees), And you kept it, and you read it, "Belle Marquise !" III Yet with us your toilet graces Fail to please, And the last of your last faces, And your mise; For we hold you just as real, "Belle Marquise!" As your Bergers and Bergères, Calm and ease, As the Venus there, by Coustou, Is to her the gods were used to,— Sprung from seas. You are just a porcelain trifle, "Belle Marquise !" Just a thing of puffs and patches, |