The world of fiction's full of deserts bare,
Yet still our authors make discoveries there.
Let me repeat a story, good, though old,
That Malherbe to Racan, 'tis rumoured, told;
Rivals of Horace, heirs in every way,
Apollo's sons, our masters, I should say:
They met one time in friendly solitude,
Unbosoming those cares that will obtrude.