The Queen of Hearts
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.
The Knave of Hearts
He stole those tarts
And took them quite away.
The King of Hearts
Called for those tarts
And beat the Knave full sore.
The Knave of Hearts
Brought back the tarts
And vowed he'd sin no more.
VIOLETTA (earnestly). My dear Knave, how wonderful of you! You shall be Poet Laureate. A Poet Laureate has no social position, has he?
KNAVE. It depends, Your Majesty, upon whether or not he chooses to be more laureate than poet.
VIOLETTA (rising, her eyes closed in ecstasy). _Your
Majesty!_ Those words go to my head--like wine!
KNAVE. Long live Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!
HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen Violetta!
VIOLETTA (excitedly). Vee-oletta, please!
HERALDS. Make way for Pompdebile the Eighth, and Queen
Vee-oletta--
(The KING and QUEEN show themselves at the door--and the people can be heard clamoring outside.)
SCENE: The Poet's rooms in London. Windows in back. A high screen in a corner.
