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Rh My Muse, retire, lest thy bright eyes be reddened by the faggot's blaze! [To a, showing him some loaves.] You have put the cleft o' th' loaves in the wrong place; know you not that the cæsura should be between the hemistiches? [To another, showing him an unfinished pasty.] To this palace of paste you must add the roof… [To a young, who, seated on the ground, is spitting the fowls.] And you, as you put on your lengthy spit the modest fowl and the superb turkey, my son,—alternate them, as the old Malherbe loved well to alternate his long lines of verse with the short ones; thus shall your roasts, in strophes, turn before the flame!

Master, I bethought me erewhile of your tastes and made this, which will please you, I hope.

A lyre!

'Tis of brioche pastry.

With conserved fruits.