Turning like the weathercock to every wind.
Of the ages of the Caesars those of the Louises are the shadow;
Paris is the ghost, of Rome, take it how you will.
No, of those vile French you are not one:
You think; they do not think at all.
Dont vous avez chante la gloire;
Que leur triste raison remplit de bile noire;
Ces Francais, que nos Allemands