Severely now his works he views,
One quibbling poem shames his muse;
The verses now he can't endure,
Written on the taking of Namure;
He blots them out with hasty hand,
And cries, "Your genius understand."
Boileau, at the express command of the God of Taste, was reconciled to Quinault, who may be considered as a poet, formed by the graces, as Boileau was by reason.
But Boileau, satirist severe,
Whilst he embraced could scarce forbear,
The lyric poet to revile,
Yet Quinault pardoned with a smile.
"I'll never be reconciled to you," said Boileau, "except you acknowledge that there are many insipid lines in those agreeable operas." "That's very possible," answered Quinault, "but you must at the same time acknowledge that you were never capable of writing Atys or Armida."
Your poems labored and exact,
May general esteem attract;
My operas composed with ease
May surely be allowed to please.
After saluting Boileau, and tenderly embracing Quinault, I saw the inimitable Moliere, and I made bold to accost him in these terms:
Terence the sage, and the polite,
Could well translate, but could not write;
His elegance is cold and faint,
He could not Roman manners paint:
