that makes but little account of the honours that might accrue to him
after his death, acted like a man of sense. _Si venit post fata gloria
non propero_[6].

Is it not infinitely better to divert one's self while one lives, than
to idle all one's life away on poring upon books? Much better will the
following song become the mouth of a man of letters, which I have
transcribed out of the Mercure Galant, of the year 1711, p. 67.

"De ceux qui vivent dans l'histoire,
Ma foi je n'envierai le sort.
Nargues du Temple de Memoire
Ou l'on ne vit que lorsque l'on est mort.
J'aime bien mieux vivre pendant ma vin
Pour boire avec Silvie;
Car je sentirai
Les momens que je vivrai
Tant que je boirai."

Faith, I shan't envy him, whoe'er he be,
That glorious lives in history;
Nor memory's rich fane amuse my head,
Where no one lives but when he's dead.
I had much rather, while I life enjoy,
The precious moments all employ,
With my lov'd Silvia, and delicious wine,
Both wonderful, and both divine.
For that I truly live, and healthy prove,
Is that I drink, and that I love.

This is exactly the same thing that Racan said to Maynard in this
ode[7].

"Je sai, Maynard, que les merveilles
Qui naissent de tes longues veilles
Vivront autant que l'univers;
Mais que te sert il que ta gloire
Eclipse au Temple de Memoire
Quand tu seras mange des vers?
Quitte cette inutile peine,
Buvons plutot a longue haleine
De ce doux jus delicieux,
Qui pour l'excellence precede
Le bruvage que Ganimede
Verse dans la coupe des dieux."

Maynard, I know thy thoughts express'd in rhyme,
Those wonders of thy bright immortal pen,
Shall live for ever in the minds of men,
Till vast eternity shall swallow time.
Yet should thy glories, now so radiant bright,
In Memory's rare temple lose their light;
Suffer eclipse, when to the worms a prey,
Those reptiles eat thy poor remains away.
Does this reflection chagrin thee, my friend,
Thus to the useless thought decree an end?
Drink, and drink largely, that delicious juice,
The em'rald vines in purple gems produce,
Which for its excellence surpasses far
That liquor which, to bright celestial souls,
Jove's minion, Ganimede, with steady care,
Richly dispenses in immortal bowls.

So much for poetry, let us come to the point, and instance some learned
men, tha