The sun beamed and dimed at will
Butterflies kind and natural to the wind
Daffodils lovely strewn the king's coronation
Birds twirled, clouds swirled, children dancing with delight
Imperial arrayed crowd; a diamonded coronet await,
For Count Richard is to be our king with flaxen hair
Look around, you shall see them boast of maiden's fair
His daughter, the only heir to her father's fortune
Halt now don't stare!
Her advent, a glorious affair, isn't she fair?
Yet, heavens dread her audacious dare
Blue-eyed, rosy cheeks; her lips bespeak malice, please beware
She's foul; no doubt my lord, yet so well she smiles
The Count of Brownlow whispers his qualms trembling
But has not the clout to douse the fire
And so, before all, royal brood and partisans
Monks ogling with their black starry eyes gazing
King's guard gloriously posed, their regalia gleaming
Duchesses, princesses and ladies-in-waiting
Amongst them all, she stood with great anticipation
And the only one who knew that Count Richard of Devon,
Hath passed away, and the throne was hers!
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