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 _ere_
(With exception of _severe_),--
You were _cruelle_ and _rebelle_,
With the rest of rhymes as well;
You were "_Reine_" and "_Mere d' Amour_";
You were "_Venus a Cythere_";
"_Sappho mise en Pompadour_,"
And "_Minerve en Paravere_";
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 veloutes_
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 _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 madri