Laudator Temporis Acti

D.B. Wyndham Lewis (1891-1969), Ronsard (London: Sheed & Ward, 1944), p. 82:

It is already clear, I trust, that Ronsard was thirsting wildly for Greek. The Latin poets he had long since drained dry. There were, he knew, headier draughts still in the newly-recovered wine-skins of Hellas. It was his good fortune to sit now at the feet of the most consummate Grecian in France, a master-philologist to whom the most crabbed text presented no difficulties, a true lover of the thought enshrined in the words, an expositor with the sacred fire, intoxicating his pupils with Hellenism. A little time after Ronsard's arrival Dorat read to him, tout de go, reeling it off in French from the Greek, the Prometheus of Aeschylus. To Claude Binet, his secretary and first biographer, Ronsard later recalled that when Dorat laid the book smilingly down a cry burst from his young listener. "Et quoy, mon maistre, m'avez-vous caché si long temps ces richesses?" "Master! Why have you hidden these riches from me so long?"