Monsieur, the king's uncle, is ailing; I romp to Blois.

A cabal is being formed in Brussels; I gallop away.

His Eminence hears of a new rouge; off I go.

And here I have been to Rome and back with a message which made the pope laugh; is it true that he is about to appoint a successor?
Mazarin, tiring of being a left-handed king, aspires to the mantle of Saint Peter.

Mazarin always selects me for petty service.