"What's this I hear?" said Criticism. "'Tis I," answered the rhymer; I am just come from Germany to visit you, and I have chosen the spring of the year to travel in.
Spring, the season in which the young Zephyrs dissolve
The bark of the floods, and to fluid resolve."[1]
The more he spoke in this style, the less was Criticism disposed to open the door to him. "What," said he, "am I then taken for
A frog, who from his narrow throat
Still utters, in discordant note.
Boekekex, roax, roax?"
"Heavens," cried Criticism, "what horrible jargon is this!" She could not immediately guess who the person was that expressed himself in this manner. She was told it was Rousseau, and that the Muses had altered his voice as a punishment for his misdeeds. She could not believe it, and refused to open the door. He blushed and cried out, <poem style="padding-left: 3em"> "A rigor so extreme abate, I come to seek Marot, my mate; Like him, ill luck I had awhile, But Phœbus now does on me smile; I'm Rousseau, and to you well known; Here's verses against the famed Bignon.[2] O thou, who always didst inspire My bosom with thy sacred fire, Kind Criticism a welcome give To one who elsewhere cannot live."
