I answered frankly, I must own,
To me taste's laws are little known,
To favor you that God inclines,
He to your hands the keys consigns;
You are his vicar here deputed,
And o'er his Church pope constituted.
In furious fret all Rome may rage,
And rave at this my honest page;
But there's a difference very plain,
'Twixt you and Rome's pope, I'll maintain;
For Sorbonne's doctors all aver
God's vicar upon earth may err:
But when I hear you reason strong,
I think you can't be in the wrong;
So just your reasoning, wit so bright,
You seem infallible outright.
"Ah," replied he, "at Rome infallibility is confined to things which men do not comprehend: in the Temple of Taste, it concerns what all think they understand. You must positively come with me." But, continued I, if you carry me with you, I will make it my public boast.
I shall be importuned I'm sure,
To write a volume on this tour:
Voltaire's account shall be at best,
But a short narrative in jest.
But town and court will, without fail,
Loudly at the relation rail;
The court will murmur, and the town
Will, as a fibber, run me down;
As one who talks with serious air
Of places, when he ne'er was there,
