I'm like the king of a rain-country, rich br but sterile, young but with an old wolf's itch, br one who escapes Fénelon's apologues, br and kills the day in boredom with his dogs; br nothing cheers him, darts, tennis, falconry, br his people dying by the balcony; br the bawdry of the pet hermaphrodite br no longer gets him through a single night; br his bed of fleur-de-lys becomes a tomb; br even the ladies of the court, for whom br all kings are beautiful, cannot put on br shameful enough dresses for this skeleton; br the scholar who makes his gold cannot invent br washes to cleanse the poisoned element; br even in baths of blood, Rome's legacy, br our tyrants' solace in senility, br we cannot warm up his shot corpse, whose food br is syrup-green Lethean ooze, not blood.