Ce pelé, ce galeux, d'où venait tout leur mal.
Il accusait toujours les miroirs d'être faux.
Aimez, aimez, tout le reste n'est rien.
[…] Je voudrais qu'à cet âge On sortît de la vie ainsi que d'un banquet, Remerciant son hôte, et qu'on fît son paquet.
Ils ne mouraient pas tous, mais tous étaient frappés.
[…] on nous ruine en fêtes ; L'une fait tort à l'autre ; et Monsieur le curé De quelque nouveau saint charge toujours son prône.
Honteux comme un renard qu'une poule aurait pris.
© 2026 My French LLC
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