The Most Christian France Is The Sole

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.

I Drink No More Than A Sponge.

All Things Have Their Ends And Cycles. And When They Have Reached Their Highest Point, They Are In Their Lowest Ruin, For They Cannot Last For Long In Such A State. Such Is The End For Those Who Cannot Moderate Their Fortune And Prosperity With Reason And Temperance.

I Won't Undertake War Until I Have Tried All The Arts And Means Of Peace.

From The Gut Comes The Strut, And Where Hunger Reigns, Strength Abstains.