A dazzling banquet-hall at Rambouillet,
A gold-crushed board flowing with spice and wine,
On silk and gems and burnished armor shine
The love-lit eyes of Diane de Poictiers.

From cups Cellini-chiseled, proud and gay,
The king quaffs deep unto their rays divine,
And while composing his rondel's last line,
Laughs at the ribald jests of Triboulet.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The field of Pavia glitters with the slain,
A king is there, by tides of foemen tossed,
His reeking glaive cleaveth thro' casque and brain,
A hundred lances on his breast are crossed,
While bleeding and weak he cries with pride and pain,
" All but my knightly honor now is lost! "