Ils sont trop verts, dit-il, et bons pour des goujats.
Solitude où je trouve une douceur secrète, Lieux que j'aimai toujours, ne pourrai-je jamais, Loin du monde et du bruit, goûter l'ombre et le frais ?
Bergers, bergers, le loup n'a tort Que quand il n'est pas le plus fort !
La difficulté fut d'attacher le grelot.
C'était un vieux routier, il savait plus d'un tour.
Il accusait toujours les miroirs d'être faux.
À l'œuvre, on connaît l'artisan.
© 2026 My French LLC
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