thee for a moment to soar above all time; see the names of La Sabliere
and of Hervard pass with thine to the ages to come!

The life of La Fontaine was, so to speak, only one of continual
distraction. In the midst of society, he was absent from it. Regarded
almost as an imbecile by the crowd, this clever author, this amiable man,
only permitted himself to be seen at intervals and by friends.

He had few books and few friends.

Amongst a large number of works that he has left, everyone knows his
fables and his tales, and the circumstances of his life are written in
a hundred places.

He died on the 16th of March, 1695.

Let us keep silence about his last moments, for fear of irritating those
who never forgive.

His fellow-citizens honour him in his posterity to this day.

Long after his death, foreigners went to visit the room which he had
occupied.

Once a year, I shall go to visit his tomb.

On that day, I shall tear up a fable of La Mothe, a tale of Vergier, or
several of the best pages of Grecourt.

He was buried in the cemetery of Saint-Joseph, by the side of Moliere.