No, my dear, if you would be like one poet, be like Monsieur Boileau; he is the poet." "I don't think so." "How, not think so?
He wrote very respectable verses; lived and died much respected by everybody.

T'other, one bad dog, forced to fly from his country--died with not enough to pay his undertaker." "Were you not forced to flee from your country ?" "That very true; but there is much difference between me and this Dante.
He fled from country because he had one bad tongue which he shook at his betters.

I fly because benefice gone, and head going; not on account of the badness of my tongue." "Well," said I, "you can return now; the Bourbons are restored." "I find myself very well here; not bad country.

_Il est vrai que la France sera toujours la France_; but all are dead there who knew me.

I find myself very well here.