Baise m’encor, rebaise-moi et baise ; Donne m’en un de tes plus savoureux, Donne m’en un de tes plus amoureux : Je t’en rendrai quatre plus chauds que braise. Las ! te plains-tu ? Çà, que ce mal j’apaise, En t’en donnant dix autres doucereux. Ainsi, mêlant nos baisers tant heureux, Jouissons-nous l’un de l’autre à notre aise. Lors double vie à chacun en suivra. Chacun en soi et son ami vivra. Permets m’Amour penser quelque folie : Toujours suis mal, vivant discrètement, Et ne me puis donner contentement Si hors de moi ne fais quelque saillie.

If you can keep your head when all about you Are losing theirs and blaming it on you, If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, But make allowance for their doubting too; If you can wait and not be tired by waiting, Or being lied about, don't deal in lies, Or being hated, don't give way to hating, And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise: If you can dream - and not make dreams your master; If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim; If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster And treat those two impostors just the same; If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools, Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken, And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools: If you can make one heap of all your winnings And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss, And lose, and start again at your beginnings And never breathe a word about your loss; If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew To serve your turn long after they are gone, And so hold on when there is nothing in you Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!' If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue, ' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch, if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you, If all men count with you, but none too much; If you can fill the unforgiving minute With sixty seconds' worth of distance run, Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it, And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

We're foot—slog—slog—slog—sloggin' over Africa! Foot—foot—foot—foot—sloggin' over Africa— (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up and down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Seven—six—eleven—five—nine-an'-twenty mile to-day— Four—eleven—seventeen—thirty-two the day before— (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up and down again!) There's no discharge in the war! Don't—don't—don't—don't—look at what's in front of you (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up an' down again); Men—men—men—men—men go mad with watchin' 'em, An' there's no discharge in the war. Try—try—try—try—to think o' something different— Oh—my—God—keep—me from goin' lunatic! (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up an' down again!) There's no discharge in the war. Count—count—count—count—the bullets in the bandoliers; If—your—eyes—drop—they will get atop o' you (Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up and down again)— There's no discharge in the war! We—can—stick—out—'unger, thirst, an' weariness, But—not—not—not—not the chronic sight of 'em— Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war! 'Tain't—so—bad—by—day because o' company, But night—brings—long—strings o' forty thousand million Boots—boots—boots—boots, movin' up an' down again. There's no discharge in the war! I—'ave—marched—six—weeks in 'Ell an' certify It—is—not—fire—devils dark or anything But boots—boots—boots, movin' up an' down again, An' there's no discharge in the war!