Et n’avoir pour tout fruit des peines que je prends
Que la haine de sots et les mepris des grands[5].”
Why should I pass away my time in vain,
And, to compose a book, dry up my brain,
When all the recompense I’m like to find,
For all the toil and labour of my mind,
Is the unthinking silly ideot’s hate,
And the contempt and scorn of all the great
I must own I would have the indefatigable labour of such a one gain an immortal reputation after his death; but after all, to weary one’s self all one’s life long with those views, is very chimerical. And certainly, he 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.