"Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour."
--MOLIERE.
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!_"