La moitie de ma vie a mis l’autre au tombeau;
Et m’oblige a venger, apres ce coup funeste,
Cell qui je n’ay plus sur celle qui me reste.
Cleo. The same thought expressed in our language, to all the advantage it has in the French, would be hissed by an English audience.
Hor. That is no compliment to the taste of your country.
Cleo. I do not know that: Men may have no bad taste, and yet not be so ready at conceiving, which way one half of one’s life can put the other into the grave: To me, I own it is puzzling, and it has too much the air of a riddle to be seen in heroic poetry.
Hor. Can you find no delicacy at all in the thought?
Cleo. Yes; but it is too fine spun; it is the delicacy of a cobweb; there is no strength in it.
Hor. I have always admired these lines; but now you have made me out of conceit with them: Methinks I spy another fault that is much greater.
Cleo. What is that?