Cet animal est triste, et la crainte le ronge.
Les tourterelles se fuyaient : Plus d'amour, partant plus de joie.
La mouche, en ce commun besoin, Se plaint qu'elle agit seule, et qu'elle a tout le soin, Qu'aucun n'aide aux chevaux à se tirer d'affaire.
Amour, amour, quand tu nous tiens, On peut bien dire : « Adieu, prudence ! »
Si Peau-d'Âne m'était conté J'y prendrais un plaisir extrême.
Aucun chemin de fleurs ne conduit à la gloire.
Traînant l'aile et tirant le pied.
© 2026 My French LLC
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