I am like the king of a rainy country, Rich, but powerless, young and yet very old, Who, scorning the bows and scrapes of his tutors, Is bored with his dogs as with other animals. Nothing can cheer him, neither game nor falcon, Nor his people dying opposite his balcony. The grotesque ballad of his favorite jester No longer smoothes the brow of this cruel invalid; His bed adorned with fleurs- de-lis becomes a tomb, And the tirewomen, who find all princes handsome, Can no longer contrive a shameless costume That will draw a smile from this young skeleton. The alchemist who makes gold for him has never been able To eliminate the corrupted element from his nature, And in those blood baths bequeathed to us by the Romans, And which the mighty recall when they grow old,
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