"I know you Waydelotes. Each of your songs, like the howling of dogs at night, is a harbinger of some misfortune. You like to sing of murders and devastations, and you leave us nothing but glory and grief. The child is but in the cradle, when your treacherous song, like a serpent, winds round his breast, and pours into his heart the most dreadful venom,—the foolish desire of glory, and love of his native land.
"That song follows its victim everywhere, like the shadow of a killed antagonist; it often appears in the middle of our banqueting, to pour blood into our cups of joy. Oh! I have listened to those songs,—too much alas! 'Tis done. I know thee, old fiend; thou hast won! War! Triumph to the poet. Give me wine. Thy projects shall be fulfilled.
