Madame, a brown geometric Lady, age now forty-two, with a Great Man who has scandalously ceased to love her, casts her eye upon St.Lambert: 'Yes, you would be the shoeing-horn, Monsieur, if one had time, you fine florid fellow, hardly yet into your thirties--' And tries him with a little coquetry; I always think, perhaps in this view chiefly?
And then, at any rate, as he responded, the thing itself became so interesting: 'Our Ulysses-bow, we can still bend it, then, aha! 'And is not that a pretty stag withal, worth bringing down; florid, just entering his thirties, and with the susceptibilities of genius! Voltaire was not blind, could he have helped it,--had he been tremulously alive to help it.

'Your Verses to her, my St.Lambert,--ah, Tibullus never did the like of them.

Yes, to you are the roses, my fine young friend, to me are the thorns:' thus sings Voltaire in response; [--OEuvres,--xvii.

223 (EPITRE A M.DE ST.

LAMBERT, 1749); &c.