THE highest praises you bestow me,
And finish with desires to know me;
You’ll praise me less when I am known;
But what I am I’ll freely own.
Three revolutions of the sphere
Will bring about my fortieth year;
Phœbus presided at the time
That I was born, I lisped in rhyme;
The potent god approved my wit,
And to his presence did admit;
My heart was by the god subdued,
I worshipped him through gratitude.
Their inclinations some excite,
But fate ordained that I should write.
My soul was by each taste possessed,
Each noble art inflamed my breast;
Painting delights me; oft I’ve been,
At the king’s or duke’s palace, seen
Gazing on works with raptured eye,
Where art with nature seems to vie;
Paul Veronese’s noble fire
And skill divine I much admire;
Poussin and Raphael, my sight
Ravish with exquisite delight.
From those rooms to the opera, I
Upon the wings of pleasure fly;
What there gives pleasure, from me draws
The tribute of deserved applause.
In music, Mauret’s sprightly strain,
Destouches’s grace, my praise obtain,
Pelissier’s art, le More’s fine voice,
Pleasing by turns, suspend my choice.
Sometimes I to that science soar
Which teaches nature to explore,
Following great Newton through the sky
I to find natural causes try;
I’d know if Cynthia in her course
Is by a changeful central force
Towards us made to gravitate,
And coming near acquires new weight;
I read philosophers profound,
Who nature by their reason found;
I see Clairaut, Maupertuis, rise
By calculation to the skies;
And I indeed too often find
Such studies but perplex my mind.
Obscure researches set apart,
I study next the human heart.
I often Pascal’s works review,
A genius singular and new;
That satirist, devout and sage,
Against mankind too prone to rage.
I, his austerity oppose;
He’d have men to themselves be foes.
A friend to man, I strive to show
How he to love himself may know.
I’m free from passion, care, and strife;
The muse diversifies my life;
My day begins with joy, and ends
In cheerful suppers with my friends.
I now no more of love complain,
Reason at last has broke my chain;
I follow Cupid now no more,
The happy age of love is o’er;
With love’s flame must I no more burn?
Each art I cultivate in turn,
Indolent languor to avoid;
But all this can’t fill up the void,
For notwithstanding all my pains
Still there a craving void remains.