Page:Works of Voltaire Volume 36.djvu/87

Rh  By such our nature is disgraced, He flies the sacred shrine of taste. When my company was going to retire, the God addressed them in terms to this effect, for I am not permitted to use his own words.  Farewell, my much loved friends, farewell, Since you in poetry excel; Let not to Paris, dire disgrace, My rival there possess my place. False taste I know, from your keen eyes, In terror and confusion flies; If ever you should meet that foe, You'll him by this description know: His tawdry dress, is void of grace, His air's affected, and his face, He forces oft a languid smile, And talks in the true coxcomb's style; He takes my name, assumes my shape Of genuine taste, the awkward ape; For he's the son of art at most, Whilst nature as my fire I boast.