_Montaigne._ It never goes to the head, nor pulls the nerves, which many do as if they were guitar-strings. I drink a couple of bottles a day, winter and summer, and never am the worse for it. You gentlemen of the Agennois have better in your province, and indeed the very best under the sun. I do not wonder that the Parliament of Bordeaux should be jealous of their privileges, and call it Bordeaux. Now, if you prefer your own country wine, only say it: I have several bottles in my cellar, with corks as long as rapiers, and as polished. I do not know, M. de l'Escale, whether you are particular in these matters: not quite, I should imagine, so great a judge in them as in others? _Scaliger._ I know three things: wine, poetry, and the world. _Montaigne._ You know one too many, then. I hardly know whether I know anything about poetry; for I like Clem Marot better than Ronsard. Ronsard is so plaguily stiff and stately, where there is no occasion for it; I verily do think the man must have slept with his wife in a cuirass. _Scaliger._ It pleases me greatly that you like Marot. His versions of the Psalms is lately set to music, and added to the New Testament of Geneva. _Montaigne._ It is putting a slice of honeycomb into a barrel of vinegar, which will never grow the sweeter for it. _Scaliger._ Surely, you do not think in this fashion of the New Testament! _Montaigne._ Who supposes it? Whatever is mild and kindly is there. But Jack Calvin has thrown bird-lime and vitriol upon it, and whoever but touches the cover dirties his fingers or burns them. _Scaliger._ Calvin is a very great man, I do assure you, M. de Montaigne. _Montaigne._ I do not like your great men who beckon me to them, call me their begotten, their dear child, and their entrails; and, if I happen to say on any occasion, 'I beg leave, sir, to dissent a little from you,' stamp and cry, 'The devil you do!' and whistle to the executioner. _Scaliger._ You exaggerate, my worthy friend! _Montaigne._ Exaggerate do I, M. de l'Escale? What was it he did the other day to the poor devil there with an odd name?--Melancthon, I think it is. _Scaliger._ I do not know: I have received no intelligence of late from Geneva. _Montaigne._ It was but last night that our curate rode over from Lyons (he made two days of it, as you may suppose) and supped with me. He told me that Jack had got his old friend hanged and burned. I could not join him in the joke, for I find none such in the New Testament, on which he would have founded it; and, if it is one, it is not in my manner or to my taste. _Scaliger._ I cannot well believe the report, my dear sir. He was rather urgent, indeed, on the combustion of the heretic Michael Servetus some years past. _Montaigne._ A thousand to one, my spiritual guide mistook the name. He has heard of both, I warrant him, and thinks in his conscience that either is as good a roast as the other.