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THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

"Galaté, myn schoone, kom;

Laet ons minnen, spelen, zoenen,

Eer de bevende ouderdom,

Die al stil op wolle schoenen Aensluipt, onze jeugt verbyt,

Jeugt en minlust raekt men quyt Eer men 't denken kan of merken.

Galaté, de min heeft vlerken."

For him Vrouw Venus must be for ever escorted by the courtly Brost of Muiden:

"Hier reeg Adoon haer' gordel los En deê 't geen lust gehoodt,

Dat Venus niet verdroot."

And if "De Maen bij Endymion" be, indeed, the finest of all his compositions,1 then the more than ever Hooftian he:

"De zuster van de zon Liet op Endymion.

Haer minnende oogen dalen.

't Was nacht toen zy hem zagh;

Maer heur gezicht schoot stralen Trots Febus over dagh."

Within his owti language, of course, Poot could not have been more magnificently instructed than by Vondel. Yet, the strange paradox here arises that, while his influence was necessary to make him a poet, it was at the same time not of a sort likely to make him a great one. In essaying similar scholarly Renaissance effects, it was bound to arise that he, who by every token of birth and circumstance, should have remained the most completely and harmoniously human of all his country's versemakers, would actually become one of the most difficult, one of the most stilted and pretentious:

"'s Lichts jeugt, gansch lief, in 't heldere oost ontloken, En ryklyk aengedaen

1 The accepted opinion of Longfellow, Prinsen, Kloos.

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