Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 36.djvu/112

90 But these three ranks she most devours, And on them all her venom pours: Wits, beauties, and the haughty great, All are the objects of her hate: When merit strikes the public eye, Against it, she her darts lets fly. Whoever genius has displayed Is ever satire's object made. Adorned with trinkets, full of airs, Young Ægle to the priest repairs: She goes to be consigned for life To one she never saw as wife; The next day she's in triumph seen At court and ball, before the queen. And next by Paris ever kind A gallant's to the bride assigned. Roy in a ballad sings her fame, And the town echoes with her name. Ægle's incensed, her cries are vain: Ægle, excuse the poet's strain. Your case you'll bitterly deplore When men shall speak of you no more; A beauty you can scarcely name Who never suffered in her fame. We find it in Bayle's learned page, Blessed Mary could not escape its rage; Lampooner's rage was unrestrained, And even her sacred name profaned.