Futile Petition

Princess! in envying the fate of a Hebe,

Who appears on this cup at the kiss of your lips,

I use up my ardor, but my modest station is only that of abbé

And I won't even appear nude on the Sévres porcelain.

Since I am not your bewhiskered lapdog,

Nor lozenge, nor rouge, nor affected games,

And since I know that you look on me with indifferent eyesy

Blonde whose divine hairdressers are goldsmiths!

Appoint me... you whose many raspberried laughs

Are gathered into flocks of docile lambs,

Nibbling at all vows and bleating deliriously,

Appoint me... in order that Love, with a fan as his wings,

May paint me fingering a flute and lulling this sheepfold,

Princess, appoint me shepherd of your smiles.