IN the splendid casket of its scarlet lining
His two and thirty teeth's enamel is shining.
His hair, which once an Abbbess loved with sin,
Curled into ringlets in most cunning wise,
Falls- fairylike carbuncles- to his eyes,
Whose curving brows seem dyed with curcumin.

Upon his haunch resting his black-gloved fingers,
With crested cap and trailing sword he lingers
Under high balconies where ladies lean.
His doublet is of silk; thrust in his sash,
Hilted with silver sheaves his daggers flash,
Set with white diamonds and emeralds green.

And sultry is his alcove with the crushed
Petals of flowers left by great ladies, flushed
With love that cast them panting on his bed.
To kiss his eyes as live as stars, their boons
They bring of jewels, pistols and doubloons,
And bite his lips like slaughtered cattle red.

Thus, handsome as a god, brave as his dagger,
Having killed in a duel the Marquis de Montmagre,
Ten condottieri, four nephews of the Pope,
With calm, high head he marches through the cities,
And drags at his heels women he never pities,
Whose hearts upon his flowering beauty dote.

translated by Jethro Bithell