Ronsard is here a boy playing knucklebones with language; and some of
his characteristic excellences are little more than a development of
this aptitude, with its more striking incongruities abated. A modern ear
can be intoxicated by the charming jingle of

'Petite Nimfe folastre,
Nimfette que j'idolastre....'

One does not pause to think how incredibly naive it is compared with
Villon, who had not a fraction of Ronsard's scholarship, or even with
Clement Marot; naive both in thought and art. As for the stature of the
artist, we are back with Charles of Orleans. It would be idle to
speculate what exactly Villon would have made of the atomic theory had
he read Lucretius; but we are certain that he would have done something
very different from Ronsard's

'Les petits cors, culbutant de travers,
Parmi leur cheute en biais vagabonde,
Heurtés ensemble ont composé le monde,
S'entr'acrochant d'acrochemens divers....'

For this is not grown-up; the cut to simplicity has been too short. So
many of Ronsard's verses flow over the mind, without disturbing it; fall
charmingly on the ear, and leave no echoes. But for the moment we share
his enjoyment.

The second cause of his continued power of attraction is doubtless
allied to the first; it is a _naïveté_ of a particular kind, which
differs from the profound ingenuousness of which we have spoken by the