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 the folio edition of 1584, thou didst pray Buon, the bookseller, to give
thee sixty crowns to buy wood withal, and make thee a bright fire in winter
weather, and comfort thine old age with thy friend Gallandius. And if Buon
will not pay, then to try the other book-sellers, 'that wish to take
everything and give nothing.'

Was it knowledge of this passage, Master, or ignorance of everything else,
that made certain of the common steadfast dunces of our days speak of thee as
if thou hadst been a starveling, neglected poetaster, jealous forsooth, of
Maitre Francoys Rabelais? See how ignorantly M. Fleury writes, who teaches
French literature withal to them of Muscovy, and hath indited a Life of
Rabelais. 'Rabelais e'tait reve'tu d'un emploi honorable; Ronsard e'tait
traite' en subalterne,' quoth this wondrous professor. What! Pierre de
Ronsard, a gentleman of a noble house, holding the revenue of many abbeys, the
friend of Mary Stuart, of the Duc d'Orle'ans, of Charles IX., _he_ is
_traite' en subalterne_, and is jealous of a frocked or unfrocked _manant_
like Maitre Francoys! And then this amazing Fleury falls foul of thine epitaph
on Mai'tre Francoys and cries, 'Ronsard a voulu faire des vers me'chants; il
n'a fait que de me'chants vers.' More truly saith M. Sainte-Beuve, 'If the
good Rabelais had returned to Meudon on the day when this epitaph was made
over the wine, he would, methinks, have laughed heartily.' But what shall be
said of a Professor like the egregious M. Fleury, who holds that Ronsard was
despised at Court? Was there a party at tennis when the king would not fain
have had thee on his side, declaring that he ever won when Ronsard was his
partner? Did he not give thee benefices, and many priories, and call thee his
father in Apollo, and even, so they say, bid thee sit down beside him on his
throne? Away, ye scandalous folk, who tell us that there was strife between
the Prince of Poets and the King of Mirth. Naught have ye by way of proof of