No More Learning

for Beauty's Goddess could
By Iris be replaced, nor one suppose
The secret fraud--their grace so equal shows.
Thou at Cythera couldst, at Paphos too,
Of the same Iris Venus form anew.






ANOTHER IMITATION OF ANACREON


PRONE, on my couch I calmly slept
Against my wont. A little child
Awoke me as he gently crept
And beat my door. A tempest wild
Was raging-dark and cold the night.
"Have pity on my naked plight,"
He begged, "and ope thy door. "--"Thy name? "
I asked admitting him. --"The same
"Anon I'll tell, but first must dry
"My weary limbs, then let me try
"My mois'ened bow. "--Despite my fear
The hearth I lit, then drew me near
My guest, and chafed his fingers cold.
"Why fear? " I thought. "Let me be bold
"No Polyphemus he; what harm
"In such a child? --Then I'll be calm! "
The playful boy drew out a dart,
Shook his fair locks, and to my heart
His shaft he launch'd.
--"Love is my name,"
He thankless cried, "I hither came
"To tame thee. In thine ardent pain
"Of Cupid think and young Climene. "--
"Ah! now I know thee, little scamp,
"Ungrateful, cruel boy! Decamp! "
Cupid a saucy caper cut,
Skipped through the door, and as it shut,
"My bow," he taunting cried, "is sound,
"Thy heart, poor comrade, feels the wound. "






THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE
TO HIS SECOND BOOK OF THESE TALES


These are the last works of this style that will come from the pen of
the Author, and consequently this is the last opportunity he has of
vindicating the boldness and privilege which he has assumed. We make no
mention of villainous rhymes, of lines that run into the next, of two
vowels without elision, nor, in general, of such kinds of carelessness
as he would not allow himself in another style of poetry, but which
are part and parcel, so to say, of this style. Too anxious a care
in avoiding such would force a tale-writer into a labyrinth of shifts,
into narratives as dull as they are grand, into straits that are utterly
useless, and would make him disregard the pleasure of the heart in order
to labour for the gratification of the ear. We must leave studied
narrative for lofty subjects, and not compose an epic poem of the
Adventures of Renaud d'Ast. Suppose the Author, who has put these tales
into rhyme, had brought to bear on them all the care and preciseness
required of him; not only would this care be observed, especially as it
is unnecessary, but it would also transgress the precept lain down by
Ouintilian, still the Author would not have attained the main object,
which is to interest the reader, to charm him, to rivet his attention
in spite of himself,--in a word, to please him. As everybody knows, the
secret of pleasing the reader is not always based on regulation, nor even
on symmetry; there is need of smartness and tastefulness, if we would
strike home. How many of those perfect types of beauty do we see which
never strike home, and of which nobody feels enamoured! We do not wish
to rob Modern Authors of the praise that is due to them. Nicely turned
lines, fine language, accuracy, elegance of rhyme are accomplishments in
a poet. However that may be, let us consider of our own epigrams wherein
all these qualities are combined, perhaps we shall find in them far less
point, nay, I would venture to add, far less charm than in those of
Marot or Saint-Gelais, although almost all the works of the latter poets
are full of the same faults as are attributed to us.