Among those who longed for entrance into this charming society of
choice spirits was the Count de Charleval, a polite and accomplished
chevalier, indeed, but of no particular standing as a literary
character. Nothing would do, however, but a song of triumph as a test
of his competency and he accomplished it after much labor and
consumption of midnight oil. Scarron has preserved the first stanza
in his literary works, the others being lost to the literary world,
perhaps with small regret. The sentiments expressed in the first
stanza rescued from oblivion will be sufficient to indicate the
character of the others:

"Je ne suis plus oiseau des champs,
Mais de ces oiseaux des Tournelles
Qui parlent d'amour en tout temps,
Et qui plaignent les tourterelles
De ne se baiser qu'au printemps."

Which liberally translated into English will run substantially as
follows:

No more am I a wild bird on the wing,
But one of the birds of the Towers, who
The love in their hearts always sing,
And pity the poor Turtle Doves that coo
And never kiss only in spring.

Scarron alludes to the delicacy of the Count's taste and the
refinement of his wit, by saying of him: "The muses brought him up on
blanc mange and chicken broth."