Misled by Epicurus' lore,
I thought I Nature could explore,
And as a god the man admired,
Who, with presumptuous fury fired,
Dared impious war with heaven to wage,
The gods dethroning in his rage.
I thought the soul a transient fire,
Dissolved the moment we expire;
I now no more with truth contend;
The soul shall never have an end;
But of existence always sure,
Shall like your deathless verse endure.
The cardinal answered this compliment in the language of Lucretius. All the Latin poets present, from his air and style, judged him to be an ancient Roman; but the French poets are highly displeased at authors composing verses in a language which is no longer spoken; and they affirm that since Lucretius, born at Rome, wrote a Latin poem upon the philosophy of Epicurus, his adversary, born at Paris, should have written against him in French. To conclude, after several such amusing delays, we at last arrived at the Temple of the God of Taste.
I saw the god, whom I in vain
Implore for aid in every strain;
That god, who never was defined;
Whose essence escapes the searching mind;
To whom just service few can pay,
Though they with such devotion pray;
Who animates La Fontaine's strain,
And Vodius searches for in vain.
The Graces he consults, whose ease,
With native beauty joined, can please;
