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 _Bergeres_,
_Tes d' Amour_ and _Batelieres_;
As your _pares_, and your Versailles,
Gardens, grottoes, and _socailles_;
As your Naiads and your trees;--
Just as near the old ideal
Calm and ease,
As the Venus there by Coustou,
That a fan would make quite flighty,
Is to her the gods were used to,--
Is to grand Greek Aphrodite,
Sprung from seas.
You are just a porcelain trifle,
"_Belle Marquise!_"
Just a thing of puffs and patches
Made for madrigals and catches,
Not for heart wounds, but for scratches,
O Marquise!
Just a pinky porcelain trifle,
"_Belle Marquise!_"
Wrought in rarest _rose-Dubarry,_
Quick at verbal point and parry,
Clever, doubtless;--but to marry,
No, Marquise!