‘Wash this linen.’⁠—‘Where?’⁠—‘In the stream. Make of it, soiling not, spoiling not, a petticoat fair with its bodice fine, which I will embroider and fill with flowers.’⁠—‘Madame, the child is no longer here; what is to be done?’⁠—‘Then make of it a winding-sheet in which to bury me.’

Lovely things we will buy

As we stroll the faubourgs through,

Roses are pink, cornflowers are blue,

I love my love, cornflowers are blue.”