Champagne... The Wine Of Kings,

There Are Some Delightful Places In This World Which Have A Sensual Charm For The Eyes. One Loves Them With A Physical Love. We People Who Are Attracted By The Countryside Cherish Fond Memories Of Certain Springs, Certain Woods, Certain Ponds, Certain Hills, Which Have Become Familiar Sights And Can Touch Our Hearts Like Happy Events. Sometimes Indeed The Memory Goes Back Towards A Forest Glade, Or A Spot On A River Bank Or An Orchard In Blossom, Glimpsed Only Once On A Happy Day, But Preserved In Our Heart.

If I Could, I Would Stop The Passage Of Time. But Hour Follows On Hour, Minute On Minute, Each Second Robbing Me Of A Morsel Of Myself For The Nothing Of Tomorrow. I Shall Never Experience This Moment Again.

There Are In France Some Fifty Thousand Young Men Of Good Birth And Fairly Well Off Who Are Encouraged To Live A Life Of Complete Idleness. They Must Either Cease To Exist Or Must Come To See That There Can Be No Happiness, No Health Even, Without Regular Daily Labor Of Some Sort... The Need Of Work Is In Me.

The Kiss Itself Is Immortal. It Travels From Lip To Lip, Century To Century, From Age To Age. Men And Women Garner These Kisses, Offer Them To Others And Then Die In Turn.

Love Always Has Its Price, Come Whence It May.