Butterflies Are But Flowers That

Fame And Admiration Weigh Not A Feather In The Scale Against Friendship And Love, For The Heart Languishes All The Same.

We Do Not Precisely Enjoy Liberty At The Figaro. M. De Latouche, Our Worthy Director (ah! You Should Know The Fellow), Is Always Hanging Over Us, Cutting, Pruning, Right Or Wrong, Imposing Upon Us His Whims, His Aberrations, His Fancies, And We Have To Write As He Bids.

It Seems To Me That The Earth Belongs To God Who Made It And Entrusted It To Men As A Perpetual Home. But It Cannot Have Been Part Of His Plan That Some Men Should Be Ill With Overfeeding And That Others Should Die Of Starvation. No Matter What Anyone Can Say They Cannot Prevent Me From Feeling Sad And Angry When I See A Beggar Crying At A Rich Man's Door.

We Must Love Stupid People Better Than Ourselves; Are They Not The Really Unfortunate Ones Of This World? Do Not People Without Taste And Without Ideal Grow Constantly Weary, Rejoicing In Nothing, And Being Quite Useless Here Below?

We Do Not Die Of Anguish, We Live On. We Continue To Suffer. We Drink The Cup Drop By Drop.