Corydon tempted Alexis,

Head farmers do likewise, and lying weary amid their oats

They get praise from tolerant Hamadryads.”

Go on, to Ascraeus’ prescription, the ancient,

respected, Wordsworthian:

“A flat field for rushes, grapes grow on the slope.”

And behold me, small fortune left in my house.

Me, who had no general for a grandfather!

I shall triumph among young ladies of indeterminate character,

My talent acclaimed in their banquets,

I shall be honoured with yesterday’s wreaths.

And the god strikes to the marrow.

Like a trained and performing tortoise,

I would make verse in your fashion, if she should command it,

With her husband asking a remission of sentence,

And even this infamy would not attract numerous readers

Were there an erudite or violent passion,

For the nobleness of the populace brooks nothing below its own altitude.

One must have resonance, resonance and sonority ...

like a goose.

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