I have in the course of my life written some amorous verses, or at all events some that claimed to be so considered.--I have just read over a part of them. The modern idea of love is absolutely lacking.--If they were written in Latin distiches instead of in French rhymes, they might be taken for the work of a wretched poet of Augustus's time. And I am amazed that the women, for whom they were written, did not take serious offence at them instead of being charmed with them.--To be sure, women understand no more about poetry than cabbages and roses, which is very natural and simple, they being themselves poetry, or at least the best instruments of poetry: the flute does not hear or understand the tune that you play upon it. In these poems I speak of nothing but golden or ebon locks, the miraculous fineness of the skin, the roundness of the arm, the small size of the feet and the refined shape of the hand, and they all end with an humble entreaty to the divinity to accord as speedily as possible the enjoyment of all those beautiful things.--In the finest passages, there is naught but garlands suspended at the door, showers of roses, incense, a succession of Catullian kisses, delicious, sleepless nights, quarrels with Aurora coupled with injunctions to the aforesaid Aurora to withdraw behind old Tithonus's saffron-colored curtains;--there is splendor without heat, resonance without vibration.--They are rhythmical, polished, written with sustained interest; but, through all the refinements and veils of expression, you can feel the sharp, stern voice of the master trying to assume a softer tone in speaking to the slave.--Not, as in the erotic poems written since the Christian era, does a heart ask another heart to love it, because it loves; there is no smiling, azure lake inviting a brook to plunge into its bosom that they may reflect together the stars of heaven; no pair of doves spreading their wings at the same time to fly to the same nest. Cynthia, you are fair; make haste. Who knows if you will be alive to-morrow?--Your hair is blacker than the lustrous flesh of an Ethiopian maiden. Make haste; in a few years slender silvery threads will glide in among its dense masses;--these roses smell sweet to-day, to-morrow they will have the odor of death and will be only the dead bodies of roses.--Let us inhale your roses so long as they resemble your cheeks; let us kiss your cheeks so long as they resemble your roses.--When you are old, Cynthia, no one will care aught for you, not even the lictor's assistants if you should pay them, and you will run after me whom you repulse to-day. Wait until Saturn has furrowed with his nail that pure and gleaming brow, and you will see how your threshold, now so besieged, so implored, so covered with flowers and so wet with tears, will be avoided, accursed and covered with weeds and nettles.--Make haste, Cynthia; the smallest wrinkle may serve as a grave for the greatest love.