Valencia's protest was followed by another from the Sevillan, Juan de Jáuregui, whose preface to his _Rimas_ (1618) is a literary manifesto against those poems "which only contain an embellishment of words, being phantoms without soul or body." Jáuregui returned to the attack in his _Discurso poético_ (1623), a more formal and elaborate indictment of the whole Gongoristic movement. This treatise, of which only one copy is known to exist, has been reprinted with some curtailments by Sr. Menéndez y Pelayo in his _Historia de las Ideas Estéticas en España_. It deserves study no less for its sound doctrine than for the admirable style of the writer, whose courtesy of tone makes him an exception among the polemists of his time. As Jáuregui represents the opposition of the Seville group, so Manuel Faria y Sousa, the editor of the _Lusiadas_, speaks in the name of Portugal. Faria y Sousa's theory of poetics is the simplest possible: there is but one great poet in the world, and his name is Camões. Faria y Sousa transforms the _Lusiadas_ into a dull allegory, where Mars typifies St. Peter; he writes down Tasso as "common, trivial, not worth mentioning, poor in knowledge and invention"; and, in accordance with these principles, he accuses Góngora of being no allegorist, and protests that to rank him with Camões is to compare "Marsyas to Apollo, a fly to an eagle." A more formidable opponent for the Gongorists was Lope de Vega, who was himself accused of obscurity and affectation. Bouhours, in his _Manière de bien penser dans les ouvrages d'esprit_ (1687), tells that the Bishop of Belley, Jean-Pierre Camus, meeting Lope in Madrid, cross-examined him as to the meaning of one of his sonnets. With his usual good-nature, the poet listened, and "ayant leû et releû plusieurs fois son sonnet, avoua sincèrement qu'il ne l'entendoit pas luy mesme." It must have irked his inclination to take the field against Góngora, for whom he had a strong personal liking:—"He is a man whom I must esteem and love, accepting from him with humility what I can understand, and admiring with veneration what I cannot understand." Yet he loved truth (as he understood it) more than he loved Socrates. "You can make a _culto_ poet in twenty-four hours: a few inversions, four formulas, six Latin words, or emphatic phrases—and the trick is done," he writes in his _Respuesta_; and he follows up this plain speaking with a burlesque sonnet.