Sonnet Lxxxix: Poem by George Henry Boker

Today her Majesty was wroth and cold,
Because I trifled when her heart was sad:
How in her arms could I be else than glad
To play the lamb within that rapturous fold?
But what perverseness made me overbold
To show the manners of a rustic lad,
Boisterous and rude, with vulgar mirth run mad,
Within the solemn court she chose to hold?
So on the rug her little foot she beat,
Shook on her brow her crown of braided hair,
Lifted her sceptered finger high in air,
Flashed in my face her eyes' consuming heat,
Made her dread presence terrible to bear;
And I--ah! I slid whimpering to her feet!