_Trissotin._ Have you heard a certain little sonnet upon the Princess Urania’s fever? _Vadius._ Yes; I heard it read yesterday. _Trissotin._ Do you know the author of it? _Vadius._ No, I do not; but I know very well that, to tell him the truth, his sonnet is good for nothing. _Trissotin._ Yet a great many people think it admirable. _Vadius._ It does not prevent it from being wretched; and if you had read it you would think like me. _Trissotin._ I know that I should differ from you altogether, and that few people are able to write such a sonnet. _Vadius._ Heaven forbid that I should ever write one so bad! _Trissotin._ I maintain that a better one cannot be made, and my reason is that I am the author of it. _Vadius._ You? _Trissotin._ Myself. _Vadius._ I cannot understand how the thing could have happened. _Trissotin._ It is unfortunate that I had not the power of pleasing you. _Vadius._ My mind must have wandered during the reading, or else the reader spoiled the sonnet; but let us leave that subject, and come to my ballad. _Trissotin._ The ballad is, to my mind, an insipid thing; it is no longer the fashion, and savors of ancient times. _Vadius._ Yet a ballad has charms for many people. _Trissotin._ It does not prevent me from thinking it unpleasant. _Vadius._ That does not make it worse. _Trissotin._ It has wonderful attractions for pedants. _Vadius._ Yet we see that it does not please you. _Trissotin._ You stupidly impose your qualities on others. _Vadius._ You very impertinently cast yours upon me. _Trissotin._ Go, you little dunce, you pitiful quill-driver! _Vadius._ Go, you penny-a-liner, you disgrace to the profession! _Trissotin._ Go, you book-manufacturer, you impudent plagiarist! _Vadius._ Go, you pedantic snob! _Philosopher._ Ah! gentlemen, what are you about? _Trissotin_ (_to_ VADIUS). Go, go, and make restitution to the Greeks and Romans for all your shameful thefts! _Vadius._ Go, and do penance on Parnassus for having murdered Horace in your verses! _Trissotin._ Remember your book, and the little stir it made. _Vadius._ And you, remember your bookseller, reduced to the workhouse. _Trissotin._ My fame is established; in vain would you endeavor to shake it. _Vadius._ Yes, yes; I’ll send you to the author of the _Satires_. _Trissotin._ I, too, will send you to him. _Vadius._ I have the satisfaction of having been honorably treated by him; he gives me a passing thrust, and includes me among several authors well known at court. But you he never leaves in peace; in all his verses he attacks you. _Trissotin._ By that we see the honorable rank I hold. He leaves you in the crowd, and esteems one blow enough to crush you. He has never done you the honor of repeating his attacks, whereas he assails me separately, as a noble adversary against whom all his efforts are necessary. His blows, repeated against me on all occasions, show that he never thinks himself victorious.