Ô soupirs ! Ô respect ! Oh qu'il est doux de plaindre Le sort d'un ennemi quand il n'est plus à craindre !
Pleurez, pleurez, mes yeux et fondez-vous en eau ! La moitié de ma vie a mis l'autre au tombeau.
Rentre en toi-même, Octave, et cesse de te plaindre. Quoi ! tu veux qu'on t'épargne et n'as rien épargné !
Cette obscure clarté qui tombe des étoiles.
Qui ne craint point la mort ne craint point les menaces.
Ah ! ne me brouillez point avec la République…
Quoi ? vous vous arrêtez aux songes d'une femme ?
© 2026 My French LLC
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