In the jewel-case of his scarlet mouth Thirty-two teeth of enamel shine. His locks, that cool the frantic drouth Of an abbess, in gay ringlets twine To eyes that fairy lustre stole— And their down-curved lids seem dipped in kohl. Hand on his hip in gauntlet black, With feathered bonnet and rapier swing Under high balconies—with no glance back— Indolent he walks. Fine daggers bring To their silver knobbed in his silken sash, The emerald gleam and the diamond flash. In his alcove, that fragrance fills Of flower-petals, haughty dames Whose hidden ardor freely spills Jewels and gold that reflect their flames, Come to kiss his eyes where cold stars laugh And his lips like the slaughtered calf. Fair as a god, brave as his dirks, Duel-slaying the Count of Montague, Four nephews of the pope, and twenty Truks; Calm, with high head he walks the city through, While servile sweethearts rapt attendance dance, Whose hearts are wounded at his flowery glance. |