A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE "Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour." --MOLIÈRE. I As you sit there at your ease, O Marquise! And the men flock round your knees Thick as bees, 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 To the crowd that come and go, Dainty Deity of Powder, Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, As you sit where lustres strike you, Sure to please, Do we love you most, or like you, "_Belle Marquise!_" II You are fair; oh 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_ (With exception of _sévère_),-- You were _cruelle_ and _rebelle_, With the rest of rhymes as well; You were "_Reine_" and "_Mère d' Amour_"; You were "_Vénus à Cythère_"; "_Sappho mise en Pompadour_," And "_Minerve en Paravère_"; You had every grace of heaven In your most angelic face, With the nameless finer leaven Lent of blood and courtly race; And he added, too, in duty, Ninon's wit and Boufflers's beauty; And La Valliere'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