Defame and lampoon her, be rude and uncivil, Then you’ll vanquish the haughtiest dame. Be proud and presumptuous, deceive like the ---- And aught that you wish you may claim. All the beautiful slight, To the plain be polite, That’s the way the proud hussies to tame. Bernard de Ventadour is thus unromantic. You say the moon is all aglow, The nightingale a-singing. I’d rather watch the red wine flow And hear the goblets ringing. You say ’tis sweet to hear the gale Creep sighing through the willows. I’d rather hear a merry tale ’Mid a group of jolly fellows. You say ’tis sweet the stars to view Upon the waters gleaming. I’d rather see (’twixt me and you And the post) my supper steaming. While the Monk of Montaudon, an incorrigible satirist, thus descants on the ladies. I am a saint of good repute, by mortals called St. Julian; Being wanted much on earth I go not oft to realms cerulean. Yet once of late I made a call, which you may term a high call-- I went aloft to have a chat along with good St. Michael. But soon the saint was called away, which closed our conversation, To judge between some dames and monks engaged in disputation. _Paint_ was the subject of their strife, the rock on which they split; Each party wanted to monopolise the use of it. The monks declared, with many tears, that they were ruined quite, For not an ounce of it was left to keep their pictures bright. The ladies laid it on so thick, as you can understand, That the compounders could not quite keep pace with their demand. And so, unless the former were restrained by stringent law, Each shrine they swore would quickly cease its worshippers to draw. Then stepped an ancient beauty forth, and thus to Mike descanted: “Our sex was painted long before paint was for pictures wanted; As for myself, how can it hurt a clergyman or saint, If the crows’-feet beneath my eyes I cover up with paint? In keeping up my beauteous looks I cannot see a crime; In spite of them I’ll still repair the ravages of time.” St. Michael scratched his pate awhile, then, looking very wise, Said: “Dames and monks, let me suggest, I pray, a compromise. The soul as well as body, dames, requires both paint and padding. You should not wholly spend your years in love-making and gadding. And you, my monks, be less severe, nor bend the bow to breaking; All dames should have a moderate time allowed to them for raking. Then let them paint till forty-five”--at this the dames looked glum-- “Or fifty,” cried the saint in haste. “Agree, my monks, now come.”