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Updated: June 3, 2025
That may be taken as the characteristic French view of Ronsard. It may be an exaggerated view. It may be fading to some extent before modern influences. But it is unlikely that Ronsard's reputation in his own country will ever again be other than that of a great poet. At the same time, it is not easy, on literary grounds, to acquiesce in all the praises that have been heaped upon him.
I found accidentally, in opening a volume of Ronsard's poems that lay upon the table in his room, a piece of paper with a sonnet written upon it, which must be of his composition, and proves him not unaccustomed to writing in verse. He could rearrange our parts for us, make the necessary alterations and additions in the new plays we undertake, and even perhaps write a piece for us now and then.
"What a pity to spoil her peace of mind her simplicity of life!" he thought, as he walked at a slow and reluctant pace towards Ronsard's cottage; "And I fear we shall have trouble with the old man! I wonder if his philosophy will stand hard wear and tear!" The pretty, low timber-raftered house confronted him at the next bend in the road, and presented a charming aspect of tranquillity.
It is the higher touch making itself felt here and there, betraying itself, like nobler blood in a lower stock, by a fine line or gesture or expression, the turn of a wrist, the tapering of a finger. In Ronsard's time that rougher element seemed likely to predominate. No one can turn over the pages of Rabelais without feeling how much need there was of softening, of castigation.
It is one of the decorations of an age which threw much of its energy into the work of decoration. We feel a pensive pleasure in seeing these faded decorations, and observing how a group of actual men and women pleased themselves long ago. Ronsard's poems are a kind of epitome of his age.
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