Self-love prevails too much in every state;
Who, like ourselves, our secret worth can rate?
Since 'tis a fashion authorised at court,
Frankly our merits we ourselves report.
A proud humility will not deceive;
I know my worth; what others say, believe.
To be admired I form no petty league;
Few are my friends, but gain'd without intrigue.
My bold ambition, destitute of grace,
Scorns still to beg their votes from place to place.
On the fair stage my scenic toils I raise,
While each is free to censure or to praise;
And there, unaided by inferior arts,
I snatch the applause that rushes from their hearts.
Content by Merit still to win the crown,
With no illustrious names I cheat the town.
The galleries thunder, and the pit commends;
My verses, everywhere, my only friends!
'Tis from their charms alone my praise I claim;
'Tis to myself alone, I owe my fame;
And know no rival whom I fear to meet,
Or injure, when I grant an equal seat.
Voltaire censures Corneille for making his heroes say continually they
are great men. But in drawing the character of a hero he draws his own.
All his heroes are only so many Corneilles in different situations.
Thomas Corneille attempted the same career as his brother; perhaps his
name was unfortunate, for it naturally excited a comparison which could
not be favourable to him. Gaçon, the Dennis of his day, wrote the
following smart impromptu under his portrait:--
Voyant le portrait de Corneille,
Gardez-vous de crier merveille;
Et dans vos transports n'allez pas
Prendre ici _Pierre_ pour _Thomas_.