In idle rhymes we waste our days, With yawning fits for all our praise, While Bacchus, god of mirth and wine, Invites us to a life divine. Apollo, prince of bards and prigs, May scrape his fiddle to the pigs; And for the Muses, old maids all, Why let them twang their lyres, and squall Their hymns and odes on classic themes, Neglected by their sacred streams. As for the true poetic fire, What is it but a mad desire? While Pegasus himself, at best, Only a horse must be confess’d; And he must be an ass indeed, Who would bestride the winged steed. Bacchus, thou who watchest o’er All feasts of ours, whom I adore With each new draught of rosy wine That makes my red face like to thine-- By thy ivied coronet, By this glass with rubies set, By thy thyrsus--fear of earth-- By thine everlasting mirth, By the honor of the feast, By thy triumphs, greatest, least, By thy blows, not struck, but drunk, With king and bishop, priest and monk, By the jesting, keen and sharp, By the violin and harp, By the bells, which are but flasks, By our sighs which are but masks Of mirth and sacred mystery, By thy panthers fierce to see, By this place so fair and sweet, By the he-goat at thy feet, By Ariadne, buxom lass, By Silenus on his ass, By this sausage, by this stoup, By this rich and thirsty soup, By this pipe from which I wave All the incense thou dost crave, By this ham, well spiced, long hung, By this salt and wood-smoked tongue, Receive us in the happy band Of those who worship glass in hand. And, to prove thyself divine, Leave us never without wine. Molière (the stage name of Jean Baptiste Poquelin), the greatest comic dramatist of France, wrote thirty or more plays. Though difficult to quote significant passages, two are here given: _FROM “THE LEARNED WOMEN”_ _Trissotin._ Your verses have beauties unequaled by any others. _Vadius._ Venus and the graces reign in all yours. _Trissotin._ You have an easy style, and a fine choice of words. _Vadius._ In all your writings one finds _ithos_ and _pathos_. _Trissotin._ We have seen some eclogues of your composition which surpass in sweetness those of Theocritus and Vergil. _Vadius._ Your odes have a noble, gallant, and tender manner, which leaves Horace far behind. _Trissotin._ Is there anything more lovely than your canzonets? _Vadius._ Is there anything equal to the sonnets you write? _Trissotin._ Is there anything more charming than your little rondeaus? _Vadius._ Anything so full of wit as your madrigals? _Trissotin._ If France could appreciate your value---- _Vadius._ If the age could render justice to a lofty genius---- _Trissotin._ You would ride in the streets in a gilt coach. _Vadius._ We should see the public erect statues to you. Hem--It is a ballad; and I wish you frankly to----