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