The Farce Is Finished. I Go To

How Comes It That You Curse, Frere Jean? It's Only, Said The Monk, In Order To Embellish My Language. They Are The Colors Of Ciceronian Rhetoric.

If The Skies Fall, One May Hope To Catch Larks.

The Age Was Still Dark And Reeked Of The Havoc And Misfortunes Of The Goths Who Had Put All Good Literature To Destruction. But, By God's Goodness, In My Time Light And Dignity Were Returned To Letters, And I See There Such Improvement That Today I Would Have Great Difficulty Being Admitted To The Most Elementary Classes--i, Who In My Time Was Reputed To Be (and Not Wrongly) To Be The Most Knowledgeable Person Of The Century.

Keep Running After A Dog And He Will Never Bite You.

If In Your Soil It Takes, To Heaven A Thousand Thousand Thanks Be Given; And Say With France, It Goodly Goes, Where The Pantagruelion Grows.