À ces mots, on cria haro sur le baudet.
Le plus semblable aux morts meurt le plus à regret.
Va-t-en, chétif insecte, excrément de la terre !
Il ne faut point juger des gens sur l'apparence.
[…] Ne possédait pas l'or, mais l'or le possédait.
L'homme est de glace aux vérités, Il est de feu pour les mensonges.
Nous n'écoutons d'instincts que ceux qui sont les nôtres, Et ne croyons le mal que quand il est venu.
© 2026 My French LLC
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