thy sad and beautiful
lays; for if thy bees gathered much honey 't was somewhat bitter to
taste, as that of the Sardinian yews. How clearly we see the great hall,
the grey lady spinning and humming among her drowsy maids, and how
they waken at the word, and she sees her spring in their eyes, and they
forecast their winter in her face, when she murmurs ''Twas Ronsard sang
of me.'

Winter, and summer, and spring, how swiftly they pass, and how early
time brought thee his sorrows, and grief cast her dust upon thy head.

Adieu ma Lyre, adieu fillettes,
Jadis mes douces amourettes,
Adieu, je sens venir ma fin,
Nul passetemps de ma jeunesse
Ne m'accompagne en la vieillesse,
Que le feu, le lict et le vin.

Wine, and a soft bed, and a bright fire: to this trinity of poor
pleasures we come soon, if, indeed, wine be left to us. Poetry herself
deserts us; is it not said that Bacchus never forgives a renegade? and
most of us turn recreants to Bacchus. Even the bright fire, I fear,
was not always there to warm thine old blood, Master, or, if fire there
were, the wood was not bought with thy book-seller's money. When autumn
was drawing in during thine early old age, in 1584, didst thou not write
that thou hadst never received a sou at the hands of all the publishers
who vended thy books? And as thou wert about putting forth the folio
edition of 1584, thou didst pray Buon, the bookseller, to give thee
sixty crowns to buy wood withal, and make thee a bright fire in winter
weather, and comfort thine old age with thy friend Gallandius. And if
Buon will not pay, then to try the other book-sellers, 'that wish to
take everything and give nothing.'

Was it knowledge of this passage, Master, or ignorance of everything
else, that made certain of the common steadfast dunces of our days speak
of thee as if thou hadst been a starveling, neglected poetaster, jealous
forsooth, of Maitre Francoys Rabelais? See how ignorantly M. Fleury
writes, who teaches French literature withal to them of Muscovy, and
hath indited a Life of Rabelais. 'Rabelais etait revetu d'un emploi
honorable; Ronsard etait traite en subalterne,' quoth this wondrous
professor. What! Pierre de Ronsard, a gentleman of a noble house,
holding the revenue of many abbeys, the friend of Mary Stuart, of the
Duc d'Orleans, of Charles IX., _he_ is _traite en subalterne_, and is
jealous of a frocked or unfrocked _manant_ like Maitre Francoys! And
then this amazing Fleury