Marot has been called the French Chaucer. He resembles the English poet in liveliness of fancy, picturesque imagery, simplicity of expression, and satirical humour; but he has these merits in a far less degree; and in variety of genius, pathos and power, is immeasurably his inferior. Ronsard, to whom I at length return, was the successor of Marot. In his time the Italian sonnetteers, as Petrarch, Bembo, Sanazzaro, were the prevailing models, and classical pedantry the prevailing taste. Ronsard, having filled his mind with Greek and learning, determined to be a poet, and looked about for a mistress to be the object of his songs: for a poet without a mistress was then an unheard-of anomaly. He fixed upon a beautiful woman of Blois, named Cassandre, whose Greek appellative, it is said, was her principal attraction in his fancy. To her he addressed about two hundred and twenty sonnets, in a style so lofty and pedantic, stuffed with such hard names and philosophical allusions, that the fair Cassandra must have been as wise as her namesake, the daughter of Priam, to have comprehended her own praises. Ronsard's next love was more interesting. Her name was Marie: she was beautiful and kind: the poet really loved her; and consequently, we find him occasionally descending from his heights of affectation and scholarship, to the language of truth, nature and tenderness. Marie died young; and among Ronsard's most admired poems are two or three little pieces written after her death. As his works are not commonly met with, I give one as a specimen of his style:-- EPITAPHE DE MARIE. Ci reposent les os de la belle Marie, Qui me fit pour un jour quitter mon Vendomois,[117] Qui m'echauffa le sang au plus verd de mes mois; Qui fût toute mon tout, mon bien, et mon envie. En sa tombe repose honneur et courtoisie, Et la jeune beauté qu'en l'ame je sentois, Et le flambeau d'Amour, ses traits et son carquois, Et ensemble mon coeur, mes pensées et ma vie. Tu es, belle Angevine,[117] un bel astre des cieux; Les anges, tous ravis, se paissent de tes yeux, La terre te regrette, O beauté sans seconde! Maintenant tu es vive, et je suis mort d'ennui, Malheureux qui se fie en l'attente d'autrui; Trois amis m'ont trompé,--toi, l'amour, et le monde.