Your Highness, I beg to report that our Trade Representative may have been beguiled into this arrangement, as witness the exchange below recorded by one of our agents. Even worse, the document quoted was secured by the music hall gossips in Bavaria, where it has been recorded in an entertainment called 1776, the title, I believe, referring to the number of leagues of track Your Majesty's workers have laid to date.
Elizabeth:
I live like a nun in a cloister
Solitary, celibate, I hate it
Immortal:
I live like a monk in an abbey
Ditto, ditto, I hate it
Elizabeth:
Write to me with sentimental effusion
Let me revel in romantic illusion
Immortal:
Do you still smell of vanilla and spring air?
And is my favorite lover's pillar still firm and fair?
Elizabeth:
What was there, Sir, still is there, Sir
Come soon as you can to my cloister
I've forgotten the feel of your hand
Immortal:
Madam we shall walk in Cupid's Grove together
Both:
And we'll fondly survey
That promised land
Till then, till then
I am as I ever was and ever was
And ever shall be
Yours, yours, yours, yours, yours
Elizabeth:
Saltpeter, Sir
Fortunately, the idea for the trade is still a good one . . .
Feodor Ardent, DFAM
(Ever taking the common pulse, whilst testing with the Commoners the newest of wines and beers.)