Quelque accident fait-il que je rentre en moi-même, Je suis gros Jean comme devant.
[…] entre nos ennemis Les plus à craindre sont souvent les plus petits.
Ne forçons point notre talent ; Nous ne ferions rien avec grâce.
Quand le moment viendra d'aller trouver les morts, J'aurai vécu sans soins, et mourrai sans remords.
Mais le moindre grain de mil Serait bien mieux mon affaire.
Il n'est, pour voir, que l'œil du maître.
Il me faut du nouveau, n'en fût-il point au monde.
© 2026 My French LLC
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