Once powdered angel courtiers with short swords
And red-heeled shoes attended on their Lord’s
Levée, to greet the Roi Soleil‚ who said,
“Sometime remember me when I am dead.”
A flutter of wings, of fans ran through the court.
Provoking a spiritual lackey to retort,
“As if the bull’s eye of the world could die!
Why, has not death been banished from Versailles
And never received here, even in embassy?”
That morning in the parterre du midi
Two peasants were apprehended gathering figs,
Male and female. Scandalized, the seraphic periwigs
Soon covered their confusion with a yawn.
Politely through the parc du Trianon
A grand seigneur escorted them, to show
Them the gates of gilt. They would not take the hint and go
Banned from the artificial wilderness
Till naked amid such shameless fancy dress
And bored by the eternal Sunday (so to speak),
The two turned to the workdays of the week
At last and left, she to spin and he to delve‚
As all the clocks in paradise struck twelve.