FRENCH HUMOR
The first French humorist of note in the seventeenth century was Cyrano de Bergerac. His History of the Moon and History of the Sun are of the nature of Gulliver’s Travels.
THE SOUL OF THE CABBAGE
We laid ourselves along upon very soft quilts, covered with large carpets; and a young man that waited on us, taking the oldest of our philosophers led him into a little parlor apart, where my Spirit called to him to come back to us as soon as he had supped.
This humor of eating separately gave me the curiosity of asking the cause of it. “He’ll not relish,” said he, “the steam of meat, nor yet of herbs, unless they die of themselves, because he thinks they are sensible of pain.” “I wonder not so much,” replied I, “that he abstains from flesh, and all things that have had a sensitive life. For in our world the Pythagoreans, and even some holy Anchorites, have followed that rule; but not to dare, for instance, cut a cabbage, for fear of hurting it—that seems to me altogether ridiculous.” “And for my part,” answered my Spirit, “I find a great deal of reason in his opinion.
“For, tell me is not that cabbage you speak of a being existent in Nature as well as you? Is not she the common mother of you both? Yet the opinion that Nature is kinder to mankind than to cabbage-kind, tickles and makes us laugh. But, seeing she is incapable of passion, she can neither love nor hate anything; and were she susceptible of love, she would rather bestow her affection upon this cabbage, which you grant cannot offend her, than upon that man who would destroy her if it lay in his power.
“And, moreover, man cannot be born innocent, being a part of the first offender. But we know very well that the first cabbage did not offend its Creator. If it be said that we are made after the image of the Supreme Being, and the cabbage is not—grant that to be true; yet by polluting our soul, wherein we resembled Him, we have effaced that likeness, seeing nothing is more contrary to God than sin. If, then, our soul be no longer His image, we resemble Him no more in our feet, hands, mouth, forehead, and ears, than a cabbage in its leaves, flowers, stalk, pith, and head—do not you really think that if this poor plant could speak when one cuts it, it would not say, ‘Dear brother man, what have I done to thee that deserves death? I never grow but in gardens, and am never to be found in desert places, where I might live in security; I disdain all other company but thine, and scarcely am I sowed in thy garden when, to show thee my good-will, I blossom, stretch out my arms to thee, offer thee my children in grain; and, as a requital for my civility, thou causest my head to be chopped off.’ Thus would a cabbage discourse if it could speak.
“To massacre a man is not so great sin as to cut and kill a cabbage, because one day the man will rise again, but the cabbage has no other life to hope for. By putting to death a cabbage, you annihilate it; but in killing a man, you make him only change his habitation. Nay, I’ll go farther with you still: since God doth equally cherish all His works, and hath equally, divided the benefits betwixt us and plants, it is but just we should have an equal esteem for them as for ourselves. It is true we were born first, but in the family of God there is no birthright. If, then, the cabbage share not with us in the inheritance of immortality, without doubt that want was made up by some other advantage, that may make amends for the shortness of its being—maybe by an universal intellect, or a perfect knowledge of all things in their causes. And it is for that reason that the wise Mover of all things hath not shaped for it organs like ours, which are proper only for simple reasoning, not only weak, but often fallacious too; but others, more ingeniously framed, stronger, and more numerous, which serve to conduct its speculative exercises. You’ll ask me, perhaps, whenever any cabbage imparted those lofty conceptions to us? But tell me, again, who ever discovered to us certain beings, which we allow to be above us, to whom we bear no analogy nor proportion, and whose existence it is as hard for us to comprehend as the understanding and ways whereby a cabbage expresses itself to its like, though not to us, because our senses are too dull to penetrate so far?
“Moses, the greatest of philosophers, who drew the knowledge of nature from the fountain-head, Nature herself, hinted this truth to us when he spoke of the Tree of Knowledge; and without doubt he intended to intimate to us under that figure that plants, in exclusion of mankind, possess perfect philosophy. Remember, then, oh, thou proudest of animals, that though a cabbage which thou cuttest sayeth not a word, yet it pays in thinking. But the poor vegetable has no fit organs to howl as you do, nor yet to frisk about and weep. Yet it hath those that are proper to complain of the wrong you do it, and to draw a judgment from Heaven upon you for the injustice. But if you still demand of me how I come to know that cabbages and coleworts conceive such pretty thoughts, then will I ask you, how come you to know that they do not; and how that some among them, when they shut up at night, may not compliment one another as you do, saying, ‘Good-night, Master Cole-Curled-Pate! Your most humble servant, good Master Cabbage-Round-Head!’”
Marc-Antoine Gerard, sieur de Saint Amant, was one of the brightest and best of the French early poets.
We give a specimen of his lighter verse. The following is “An Address to Bacchus:”
In idle rhymes we waste our days,
With yawning fits for all our praise,
While Bacchus, god of mirth and wine,
Invites us to a life divine.
Apollo, prince of bards and prigs,
May scrape his fiddle to the pigs;
And for the Muses, old maids all,
Why let them twang their lyres, and squall
Their hymns and odes on classic themes,
Neglected by their sacred streams.
As for the true poetic fire,
What is it but a mad desire?
While Pegasus himself, at best,
Only a horse must be confess’d;
And he must be an ass indeed,
Who would bestride the winged steed.
Bacchus, thou who watchest o’er
All feasts of ours, whom I adore
With each new draught of rosy wine
That makes my red face like to thine—
By thy ivied coronet,
By this glass with rubies set,
By thy thyrsus—fear of earth—
By thine everlasting mirth,
By the honor of the feast,
By thy triumphs, greatest, least,
By thy blows, not struck, but drunk,
With king and bishop, priest and monk,
By the jesting, keen and sharp,
By the violin and harp,
By the bells, which are but flasks,
By our sighs which are but masks
Of mirth and sacred mystery,
By thy panthers fierce to see,
By this place so fair and sweet,
By the he-goat at thy feet,
By Ariadne, buxom lass,
By Silenus on his ass,
By this sausage, by this stoup,
By this rich and thirsty soup,
By this pipe from which I wave
All the incense thou dost crave,
By this ham, well spiced, long hung,
By this salt and wood-smoked tongue,
Receive us in the happy band
Of those who worship glass in hand.
And, to prove thyself divine,
Leave us never without wine.
Molière (the stage name of Jean Baptiste Poquelin), the greatest comic dramatist of France, wrote thirty or more plays. Though difficult to quote significant passages, two are here given:
FROM “THE LEARNED WOMEN”
Trissotin. Your verses have beauties unequaled by any others.
Vadius. Venus and the graces reign in all yours.
Trissotin. You have an easy style, and a fine choice of words.
Vadius. In all your writings one finds ithos and pathos.
Trissotin. We have seen some eclogues of your composition which surpass in sweetness those of Theocritus and Vergil.
Vadius. Your odes have a noble, gallant, and tender manner, which leaves Horace far behind.
Trissotin. Is there anything more lovely than your canzonets?
Vadius. Is there anything equal to the sonnets you write?
Trissotin. Is there anything more charming than your little rondeaus?
Vadius. Anything so full of wit as your madrigals?
Trissotin. If France could appreciate your value——
Vadius. If the age could render justice to a lofty genius——
Trissotin. You would ride in the streets in a gilt coach.
Vadius. We should see the public erect statues to you. Hem—It is a ballad; and I wish you frankly to——
Trissotin. Have you heard a certain little sonnet upon the Princess Urania’s fever?
Vadius. Yes; I heard it read yesterday.
Trissotin. Do you know the author of it?
Vadius. No, I do not; but I know very well that, to tell him the truth, his sonnet is good for nothing.
Trissotin. Yet a great many people think it admirable.
Vadius. It does not prevent it from being wretched; and if you had read it you would think like me.
Trissotin. I know that I should differ from you altogether, and that few people are able to write such a sonnet.
Vadius. Heaven forbid that I should ever write one so bad!
Trissotin. I maintain that a better one cannot be made, and my reason is that I am the author of it.
Vadius. You?
Trissotin. Myself.
Vadius. I cannot understand how the thing could have happened.
Trissotin. It is unfortunate that I had not the power of pleasing you.
Vadius. My mind must have wandered during the reading, or else the reader spoiled the sonnet; but let us leave that subject, and come to my ballad.
Trissotin. The ballad is, to my mind, an insipid thing; it is no longer the fashion, and savors of ancient times.
Vadius. Yet a ballad has charms for many people.
Trissotin. It does not prevent me from thinking it unpleasant.
Vadius. That does not make it worse.
Trissotin. It has wonderful attractions for pedants.
Vadius. Yet we see that it does not please you.
Trissotin. You stupidly impose your qualities on others.
Vadius. You very impertinently cast yours upon me.
Trissotin. Go, you little dunce, you pitiful quill-driver!
Vadius. Go, you penny-a-liner, you disgrace to the profession!
Trissotin. Go, you book-manufacturer, you impudent plagiarist!
Vadius. Go, you pedantic snob!
Philosopher. Ah! gentlemen, what are you about?
Trissotin (to Vadius). Go, go, and make restitution to the Greeks and Romans for all your shameful thefts!
Vadius. Go, and do penance on Parnassus for having murdered Horace in your verses!
Trissotin. Remember your book, and the little stir it made.
Vadius. And you, remember your bookseller, reduced to the workhouse.
Trissotin. My fame is established; in vain would you endeavor to shake it.
Vadius. Yes, yes; I’ll send you to the author of the Satires.
Trissotin. I, too, will send you to him.
Vadius. I have the satisfaction of having been honorably treated by him; he gives me a passing thrust, and includes me among several authors well known at court. But you he never leaves in peace; in all his verses he attacks you.
Trissotin. By that we see the honorable rank I hold. He leaves you in the crowd, and esteems one blow enough to crush you. He has never done you the honor of repeating his attacks, whereas he assails me separately, as a noble adversary against whom all his efforts are necessary. His blows, repeated against me on all occasions, show that he never thinks himself victorious.
Vadius. My pen will teach you what soft of man I am!
Trissotin. And mine will make you know your master!
Vadius. I defy you in verse, prose, Greek, and Latin!
Trissotin. Very well, we shall meet again at the bookseller’s!
FROM “THE GENTLEMAN CIT”
Professor of Philosophy. I will thoroughly explain all these curiosities to you.
M. Jourdain. Pray do. And now I want to entrust you with a great secret. I am in love with a lady of quality, and I should be glad if you would help me to write something to her in a short letter which I mean to drop at her feet.
Professor of Philosophy. Very well.
M. Jourdain. That will be gallant, will it not?
Professor of Philosophy. Undoubtedly. Is it verse you wish to write to her?
M. Jourdain. Oh, no, not verse.
Professor of Philosophy. You only wish for prose?
M. Jourdain. No, I wish neither verse nor prose.
Professor of Philosophy. It must be one or the other.
M. Jourdain. Why?
Professor of Philosophy. Because, sir, there is nothing by which we can express ourselves except prose or verse.
M. Jourdain. There is nothing but prose or verse?
Professor of Philosophy. No, sir. Whatever is not prose is verse, and whatever is not verse is prose.
M. Jourdain. And when we speak, what is that, then?
Professor of Philosophy. Prose.
M. Jourdain. What! when I say, “Nicole, bring me my slippers, and give me my night-cap,” is that prose?
Professor of Philosophy. Yes, sir.
M. Jourdain. Upon my word, I have been talking prose these forty years without being aware of it! I am under the greatest obligation to you for informing me. Well, then, I wish to write to her in a letter, Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love! but I would have this worded in a genteel manner, and turned prettily.
Professor of Philosophy. Say that the fire of her eyes has reduced your heart to ashes; that you suffer day and night for her tortures——
M. Jourdain. No, no, no; I don’t want any of that. I simply wish to say what I tell you: Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.
Professor of Philosophy. Still, you might amplify the thing a little?
M. Jourdain. No, I tell you, I will have nothing but those very words in the letter; but they must be put in a fashionable way, and arranged as they should be. Pray explain a little, so that I may see the different ways in which they can be put.
Professor of Philosophy. They may be put, first of all, as you have said, Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love; or else, Of love die make me, fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes; or, Your beautiful eyes of love make me, fair marchioness, die; or, Die of love your beautiful eyes, fair marchioness, make me; or else, Me make your beautiful eyes die, fair marchioness, of love.
M. Jourdain. But of all these ways, which is the best?
Professor of Philosophy. The one you said—Fair marchioness, your beautiful eyes make me die of love.
M. Jourdain. Yet I have never studied, and I did all that right off at the first shot. I thank you with all my heart, and I beg you to come early again to-morrow morning.
Professor of Philosophy.—I shall not fail you.
Paul Scarron, described as a “pure bird of pleasure,” wrote plays, novels, epigrams, letters, and best known of all, a classic burlesque called Virgile Travesti.
Quotations cannot be made from his longer works, but two poems are given.
FAREWELL TO CHLORIS
Adieu, fair Chloris, adieu:
’Tis time that I speak,
After many and many a week,
(’Tis not thus that at Paris we woo)
You pay me for all with a smile
And cheat me the while,
Speak now. Let me go.
Close your doors, or open them wide,
Matters not, so that I am outside;
Devil take me, if ever I show
Love or pity for you and your pride.
To laugh in my face,
It is all that she grants me
Of pity and grace:
Can it mean that she wants me?
This for five or six months is my pay.
Now hear my command,
Shut your doors, keep them tight night and day,
With a porter at hand
To keep every one in;
Well, I know my own mind.
The devil himself, if once you begin
To go out, couldn’t keep me behind.
The following is better known. It is his description of Paris:
Houses in labyrinthine maze:
The streets with mud bespattered all;
Palace and prison, churches, quays,
Here stately shop, there shabby stall.
Passengers black, red, gray, and white,
The pursed-up prude, the light coquette;
Murder and treason dark as night;
With clerks, their hands with inkstains wet;
A gold-laced coat without a sou,
And trembling at a bailiff’s sight;
A braggart shivering with fear;
Pages and lackeys, thieves of night;
And ’mid the tumult, noise, and stink of it,
There’s Paris—Pray, what do you think of it?
François de la Rochefoucauld, famous French moralist, is best known through the wit and wisdom of his Maxims.
A woman is faithful to her first lover a long time—unless she happens to take a second.
He who is pleased with nobody is much more unhappy than he with whom nobody is pleased.
We all have sufficient fortitude to bear the misfortunes of our friends.
Had we no faults of our own, we should notice them with less pleasure in others.
We promise according to our hopes, and perform according to our fears.
Old men are fond of giving good advice to console themselves for their impotence to give bad examples.
We often do good in order that we may do evil with impunity.
If we resist our passions it is more from their weakness than from our strength.
We should have very little pleasure if we did not sometimes flatter ourselves.
It is easier to be wise for others than for ourselves.
Men would not live long in society if they were not dupes to each other.
Virtue would not travel so far if vanity did not keep her company.
Hypocrisy is the homage which vice renders to virtue.
In the adversity of our best friends we often find something which does not displease us.
Gravity is a mystery of the face, invented to conceal the defects of the mind.
Affected simplicity is refined imposture.
We often pardon those who weary us, but never those whom we weary.
Blaise Pascal, celebrated geometrician and writer, left a series of delightful satires upon the Jesuits.
FROM LES PROVINCIALES
ON MENTAL RESERVATIONS
“I proceed to the facilities we have invented for the avoidance of sin in the conversation and intrigues of the world. One of the most embarrassing things to provide against is lying, when it is the object to excite confidence in any false representation. In this case, our doctrine of equivocals is of admirable service, by which, says Sanchez, ‘it is lawful to use ambiguous terms to give the impression a different sense from that which you understand yourself.’” “This I am well aware of, father.” “We have,” continued he, “published it so frequently, that in fact every body is acquainted with it; but pray, do you know what is to be done when no equivocal terms can be found?” “No, father.” “Ha, I thought this would be new to you: it is the doctrine of mental reservations. Sanchez states it in the same place: ‘A person may take an oath that he has not done such a thing, though in fact he has, by saying to himself, it was not done on a certain specified day or before he was born, or by concealing any other similar circumstance which gives another meaning to the statement. This is in numberless instances extremely convenient, and is always justifiable when it is necessary to your welfare, honor, or property.’”
“But, father, is not this adding perjury to lying?” “No; Sanchez and Filiutius show the contrary: ‘It is the intention which stamps the quality of the action’; and the latter furnishes another and surer method of avoiding lying. After saying in an audible voice, I swear that I did not do this, you may add inwardly, to-day; or after affirming aloud, I swear you may repeat in a whisper, I say; and then resuming the former tone—I did not do it. Now this you must admit is telling the truth.” “I own it is,” said I; “but it is telling truth in a whisper, and a lie in an audible voice; besides, I apprehend that very few people have sufficient presence of mind to avail themselves of this deception.” “Our fathers,” answered the Jesuit, “have in the same place given directions for those who do not know how to manage these niceties, so that they may be indemnified against the sin of lying, while plainly declaring they have not done what in reality they have, provided ‘that, in general, they intended to give the same sense to their assertion which a skilful man would have contrived to do.’”
“Now confess,” he asked, “have not you sometimes been embarrassed through an ignorance of this doctrine?” “Certainly.” “And will you not admit, too, that it would often be very convenient to violate your word with a good conscience?” “Surely, one of the most convenient things in the world!” “Then, sir, listen to Escobar; he gives this general rule: ‘Promises are not obligatory when a man has no intention of being bound to fulfil them; and it seldom happens that he has such an intention, unless he confirms it by an oath or bond, so that when he merely says I will do it, it is to be understood if he do not change his mind; for he did not intend by what he promised to deprive himself of his liberty.’ He furnishes some other rules which you may read for yourself, and concludes thus: ‘Everything is taken from Molina and our other authors—omnia ex Molina et aliis’; it is, consequently, indisputable.”
“Father,” exclaimed I, “I never knew before that the direction of the intention could nullify the obligation of a promise.” “Now, then,” said he, “you perceive this very much facilitates the intercourse of mankind.”
Jean de la Fontaine, the universally known French Fabulist, was a prolific writer, but his wit shows at its best in his Fables.
THE COUNCIL HELD BY THE RATS
Old Rodilard, a certain cat,
Such havoc of the rats had made,
’Twas difficult to find a rat
With nature’s debt unpaid.
The few that did remain,
To leave their holes afraid.
From usual food abstain,
Not eating half their fill.
And wonder no one will,
That one, who made on rats his revel,
With rats passed not for cat, but devil.
Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater,
Who had a wife, went out to meet her;
And while he held his caterwauling,
The unkilled rats, their chapter calling,
Discussed the point, in grave debate,
How they might shun impending fate.
Their dean, a prudent rat,
Thought best, and better soon than late,
To bell the fatal cat;
That, when he took his hunting-round,
The rats, well cautioned by the sound,
Might hide in safety under ground;
Indeed, he knew no other means.
And all the rest
At once confessed
Their minds were with the dean’s.
No better plan, they all believed,
Could possibly have been conceived;
No doubt, the thing would work right well,
If any one would hang the bell.
But, one by one, said every rat,
“I’m not so big a fool as that.”
The plan knocked up in this respect,
The council closed without effect.
And many a council I have seen,
Or reverend chapter with its dean,
That, thus resolving wisely,
Fell through like this precisely.
To argue or refute,
Wise counsellors abound;
The man to execute
Is harder to be found.
THE COCK AND THE FOX
Upon a tree there mounted guard
A veteran cock, adroit and cunning;
When to the roots a fox up running
Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard:
“Our quarrel, brother, is at an end;
Henceforth I hope to live your friend;
For peace now reigns
Throughout the animal domains.
I bear the news. Come down, I pray,
And give me the embrace fraternal:
And please, my brother, don’t delay:
So much the tidings do concern all,
That I must spread them far to-day.
Now you and yours can take your walks
Without a fear or thought of hawks;
And should you clash with them or others,
In us you’ll find the best of brothers—
For which you may, this joyful night,
Your merry bonfires light.
But, first, let’s seal the bliss
With one fraternal kiss.”
“Good friend,” the cock replied, “upon my word,
A better thing I never heard;
And doubly I rejoice
To hear it from your voice:
And, really, there must be something in it,
For yonder come two greyhounds, which I flatter
Myself, are couriers on this very matter;
They come so fast, they’ll be here in a minute,
I’ll down, and all of us will seal the blessing
With general kissing and caressing.”
“Adieu,” said the fox; “my errand’s pressing,
I’ll hurry on my way,
And we’ll rejoice some other day.”
So off the fellow scampered, quick and light,
To gain the fox-holes of the neighboring height—
Less happy in his stratagem than flight.
The cock laughed sweetly in his sleeve—
’Tis doubly sweet deceiver to deceive.
THE CROW AND THE FOX
A master crow, perched on a tree one day
Was holding in his beak a cheese—
A master fox, by the odor drawn that way,
Spake unto him in words like these:
“O, good morning, my Lord Crow!
How well you look, how handsome you do grow!
’Pon my honor, if your note
Bears a resemblance to your coat,
You are the phœnix of the dwellers in these woods.”
At these words does the crow exceedingly rejoice;
And, to display his beauteous voice,
He opens a wide beak, lets fall his stolen goods.
The fox seized on’t, and said, “My good Monsieur,
Learn that every flatterer
Lives at the expense of him who hears him out.
This lesson is well worth a cheese, no doubt.”
The crow, ashamed, and much in pain,
Swore, but a little late, they’d not catch him so again.
Nicolas Boileau-Despreaux, commonly called Boileau, was a famous critic and poet. His Art Poétique had a decided influence on later French verse.
His wit was keen and his satire sharp.
TO PERRAULT
How comes it, Perrault, I would gladly know,
That authors of two thousand years ago,
Whom in their native dress all times revere,
In your translations should so flat appear?
’Tis you divest them of their own sublime,
By your vile crudities and odious rime.
They’re thine when suffering thy wretched phrase,
And then no wonder if they meet no praise.
ON COTIN
Of all the pens which my poor rimes molest,
Cotin’s is sharpest, and succeeds the best.
Others outrageous scold and rail downright,
With hearty rancor, and true Christian spite.
But he, a readier method does design,
Writes scoundrel verses, and then says they’re mine.
Alan René Le Sage, novelist and dramatist, is best known for his celebrated work, Gil Blas. He also wrote many farce-operettas, which offer no opportunity for quotation.
Jean de la Bruyère, is best known for his work called The Characters, an imitation of Theophrastus.
IPHIS
Iphis at church sees a new-fashioned shoe; he looks upon his own and blushes, and can no longer believe himself dressed. He came to prayers only to show himself, and now he hides himself. The foot keeps him in his room the rest of the day. He has a soft hand, with which he gives you a gentle pat. He is sure to laugh often to show his white teeth. He strains his mouth to a perpetual smile. He looks upon his legs, he views himself in the glass, and nobody can have so good an opinion of another as he has of himself. He has acquired a delicate and clear voice, and has a happy manner in talking. He has a turn of the head, a sweetness in his glance that he never fails to make use of. His gait is slow, and the prettiest he is able to contrive. He sometimes employs a little rouge, but seldom; he will not make a habit of it. It is true that he wears breeches and a hat, has neither earrings nor necklace, therefore I have not put him in the chapter on woman.
THOUGHTS
The pleasure of criticizing robs us of the pleasure of unconscious delight.
The most accomplished work of the age would fail under the hands of censors and critics, if the author would listen to all their objections, and allow each one to throw out the passage that had pleased him least.
This good we get from the perfidiousness of woman, that it cures us of jealousy.
There are but two ways of rising in the world—by your own industry, or by the weakness of others.
If life is miserable, it is painful to live; if happy, it is terrible to die; both come to the same thing.
There is nothing men are so anxious to preserve, or so careless about, as life.
We are afraid of old age, and afraid not to attain it.
If some men died, and others did not, death would indeed be a terrible affliction.
There are but three events that happen to men—birth, life, and death. They know nothing of their birth, suffer when they die, and forget to live.
Gilles Ménage, a French philologist, is now best known as the Author of Ménagiana, one of the most excellent and original of the celebrated Ana of France. The following poem bears a remarkable resemblance to Goldsmith’s Madame Blaize, and it is quite possible that the latter may have been suggested by it.
La Gallisse now I wish to touch;
Droll air! if I can strike it,
I’m sure the song will please you much;
That is, if you should like it.
La Gallisse was indeed, I grant,
Not used to any dainty
When he was born—but could not want,
As long as he had plenty.
Instructed with the greatest care,
He always was well bred,
And never used a hat to wear,
But when ’twas on his head.
His temper was exceeding good,
Just of his father’s fashion;
And never quarrels broil’d his blood,
Except when in a passion.
His mind was on devotion bent;
He kept with care each high day,
And Holy Thursday always spent,
The day before Good Friday.
He liked good claret very well,
I just presume to think it;
For ere its flavour he could tell,
He thought it best to drink it.
Than doctors more he loved the cook,
Though food would make him gross;
And never any physic took,
But when he took a dose.
O happy, happy is the swain
The ladies so adore;
For many followed in his train,
Whene’er he walk’d before.
Bright as the sun his flowing hair
In golden ringlets shone;
And no one could with him compare,
If he had been alone.
His talents I can not rehearse,
But every one allows,
That whatsoe’er he wrote in verse,
No one could call it prose.
He argued with precision nice,
The learnèd all declare;
And it was his decision wise,
No horse could be a mare.
His powerful logic would surprise,
Amuse, and much delight:
He proved that dimness of the eyes
Was hurtful to the sight.
They liked him much—so it appears
Most plainly—who preferr’d him;
And those did never want their ears,
Who any time had heard him.
He was not always right, ’tis true,
And then he must be wrong;
But none had found it out, he knew,
If he had held his tongue.
Whene’er a tender tear he shed,
’Twas certain that he wept;
And he would lay awake in bed,
Unless, indeed, he slept.
In tilting everybody knew
His very high renown;
Yet no opponents he o’erthrew,
But those that he knock’d down.
At last they smote him in the head—
What hero e’er fought all?
And when they saw that he was dead,
They knew the wound was mortal.
And when at last he lost his breath,
It closed his every strife;
For that sad day that seal’d his death,
Deprived him of his life.
Italy and Spain offer us little of seventeenth century humor. Their comedies are long and verbose, and rather dull. Also, there are few satisfactory translations.
The Italian, Francesca Redi, gives us a rollicking song of a Bacchanalian order.
DIATRIBE AGAINST WATER
He who drinks water,
I wish to observe,
Gets nothing from me;
He may eat it and starve.
Whether it’s well, or whether it’s fountain,
Or whether it comes foaming white from the mountain,
I cannot admire it,
Nor ever desire it.
’Tis a fool, and a madman, an impudent wretch,
Who now will live in a nasty ditch,
And then grows proud, and full of his whims,
Comes playing the devil, and cursing his brims,
And swells, and tumbles, and bothers his margins,
And ruins the flowers, although they be virgins.
Wharves and piers, were it not for him,
Would last forever,
If they’re built clever;
But no, it’s all one with him—sink or swim.
Let the people yclept Mameluke
Praise the Nile without any rebuke;
Let the Spaniards praise the Tagus;
I cannot like either, even for negus.
If any follower of mine
Dares so far to forget his wine
As to drink a drop of water,
Here’s the hand to devote him to slaughter.
Let your meager doctorlings
Gather herbs and such like things,
Fellows who with streams and stills
Think to cure all sorts of ills;
I’ve no faith in their washery,
Nor think it worth a glance of my eye.
Yes, I laugh at them, for that matter,
To think how they, with their heaps of water,
Petrify their skulls profound,
And make ’em all so thick and so round,
That Viviana, with all his mathematics,
Would fail to square the circle of their attics.
Away with all water wherever I come;
I forbid it ye, gentlemen, all and some.
Lemonade water,
Jessamine water,
Our tavern knows none of ’em—
Water’s a hum!
Jessamine makes a pretty crown,
But as a drink ’twill never go down.
All your hydromels and flips
Come not near these prudent lips.
All your sippings and sherbets,
And a thousand such pretty sweets,
Let your mincing ladies take ’em,
And fops whose little fingers ache ’em.
Wine, wine is your only drink!
Grief never dares to look at the brink.
Six times a year to be mad with wine,
I hold it no shame, but a very good sign.
I, for my part, take my can,
Solely to act like a gentleman,
And, acting so, I care not, I,
For all the hail and snow in the sky.
I never go poking,
And cowering and cloaking,
And wrapping myself from head to foot,
As some people do, with their wigs to boot—
For example, like dry and shivering Redi,
Who looks just like a peruk’d old lady.
From the Spanish poet, José Morell we include two quotations.
ADVICE TO AN INNKEEPER
“‘Mingle the sweet and useful,’ says a sage,
Whose name, perchance, is lost in history’s page,
But whose advice withal is good and wise.
It caught a tavern-keeper’s busy eyes,
And he exclaimed, ‘Delightful! That’s for me!’
I see the sense, I read the mystery;
This is its meaning, I can well divine:
‘Mix useful water with your luscious wine.’”
TO A POET
“You say your verses are of gold.
And how, my friend? I’d fain inquire.
But, no—I see the truth you’ve told:
They must be purified by fire.”