With silver drops the mead yet spread for ruth, In active games of nimbleness and strength, Where we did strain, trained with swarms of youth, Our tender limbs that yet shot up in length. The secret groves, which oft we made resound Of pleasant plaint, and of our ladies' praise; Recording oft what grace each one had found, What hope of speed, what dread of long delays.
Tuer un parent de qui l’on se plaint, c’est quelque chose; mais hériter de lui, c’est là un plaisir!honoré de balzac
Tout le monde se plaint de sa mémoire, et personne ne se plaint de son jugement.françois de la rochefoucauld
And from the prayer of Want, and plaint of Woe, O never, never turn away thine ear! Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below, Ah! what were man, should Heaven refuse to hear!james beattie