beautiful lays; for if thy bees gathered much honey 'twas somewhat
bitter to taste, like that of the Sardinian yews. How clearly we
see the great hall, the grey lady spinning and humming among her
drowsy maids, and how they waken at the word, and she sees her
spring in their eyes, and they forecast their winter in her face,
when she murmurs "'Twas Ronsard sang of me."

Winter, and summer, and spring, how swiftly they pass, and how early
time brought thee his sorrows, and grief cast her dust upon thy
head.


Adieu ma Lyre, adieu fillettes,
Jadis mes douces amourettes,
Adieu, je sens venir ma fin,
Nul passetemps de ma jeunesse
Ne m'accompagne en la vieillesse,
Que le feu, le lict et le vin.


Wine, and a soft bed, and a bright fire: to this trinity of poor
pleasures we come soon, if, indeed, wine be left to us. Poetry
herself deserts us; is it not said that Bacchus never forgives a
renegade? and most of us turn recreants to Bacchus. Even the bright
fire, I fear, was not always there to warm thine old blood, Master,
or, if fire there were, the wood was not bought with thy book-
seller's money. When autumn was drawing in during thine early old
age, in 1584, didst thou not write that thou hadst never received a
sou at the hands of all the publishers who vended thy books? And as
thou wert about putting forth thy folio edition of 1584, thou didst