Scaliger. I know three things: wine, poetry, and the world.
Montaigne. You know one too many, then. I hardly know whether I know anything about poetry; for I like Clem Marot better than Ronsard. Ronsard is so plaguily stiff and stately, where there is no occasion for it; I verily do think the man must have slept with his wife in a cuirass.
Scaliger. It pleases me greatly that you like Marot. His versions of the Psalms is lately set to music, and added to the New Testament of Geneva.
Montaigne. It is putting a slice of honeycomb into a barrel of vinegar, which will never grow the sweeter for it.
Scaliger. Surely, you do not think in this fashion of the New Testament!
Montaigne. Who supposes it? Whatever is mild and kindly is there. But Jack Calvin has thrown bird-lime and vitriol upon it, and whoever but touches the cover dirties his fingers or burns them.
Scaliger. Calvin is a very great man, I do assure you, M. de Montaigne.
Montaigne. I do not like your great men who beckon me to them, call me their begotten, their dear child, and their entrails; and, if I happen to say on any occasion, ‘I beg leave, sir, to dissent a little from you,’ stamp and cry, ‘The devil you do!’ and whistle to the executioner.
Scaliger. You exaggerate, my worthy friend!
Montaigne. Exaggerate do I, M. de l’Escale? What was it he did the other day to the poor devil there with an odd name?—Melancthon, I think it is.