I pity those who have no taste for reading.
Death makes us all equal.
There are twelve hours in the day, and above fifty in the night.
Racine will pass away like the taste for coffee.
Oh Dear! How unfortunate I am not to have anyone to weep with!
the days, and the months, and the years, pass so swiftly, that I can no longer retain them. Time, in its flight, hurries me away, in spite of myself; in vain I endeavor to stop him, he drags me along: the thought of this alarms me.