Vous n'êtes pas jolie, vous êtes pire.
Oh ! La muse se doit aux peuples sans défense. J'oublie alors l'amour, la famille, l'enfance, Et les molles chansons et le loisir serein, Et j'ajoute à ma lyre une corde d'airain !
Ô souvenirs ! printemps ! aurore !
L'instinct, c'est l'âme à quatre pattes ; la pensée c'est l'esprit debout.
Cambronne à Waterloo a enterré le premier empire dans un mot où est né le second.
[…] Oui, brigand, jacobin, malandrin, J'ai disloqué ce grand niais d'alexandrin.
Les femmes regardaient Booz plus qu'un jeune homme, Car le jeune homme est beau, mais le vieillard est grand.
© 2026 My French LLC
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