This quatrain riddle is by François Colletet, that poor poet up to his neck in mud. Listen now to Cotin—the Trissotin of Molière—in this singular sextain:—
With mortal flesh our five soft mouths we fill,
And in the winter to repletion feed;
If one of us be lost, the world’s agreed
To treat the rest of us exceeding ill;
But if we all remain together, then
We do almost all that is done by men.
Mediocre, isn’t it; tortured, bombastic, gross, all at once? There is nothing here to make us fall into an ecstasy, and repeat to satiety, as some highly refined courtiers used to do, “Ah, with what congruity of terms are these thoughts expressed!”
I shall abandon the riddles at once. These two specimens are enough. Another point:
Many physiologists affirm that great warriors have been remarkable for a beautiful hand, which they loved perhaps to adorn with the most delicate gloves. They instance Cyrus, Alexander, Cæsar, Charlemagne, and Napoleon.