"Combien d'autres amis je ne rencontrerai plus ! L'homme, chaque soir en se couchant, peut compter ses pertes : il n'y a que ses ans qui ne le quittent point, bien qu'ils passent. Lorsqu'il en fait la revue et qu'il les nomme, ils répondent " Présents ! " Aucun ne manque à l'appel."

He who hath many friends hath none.

A man dies as often as he loses his friends.

He that has many friends, has no friends.

It is the fate of most men who mingle with the world, and attain even the prime of life, to make many real friends, and lose them in the course of nature. It is the fate of all authors or chroniclers to create imaginary friends, and lose them in the course of art. Nor is this the full extent of their misfortunes; for they are required to furnish an account of them besides.

One friend in a lifetime is much; two are many; three are hardly possible.

Every man can tell how many goats or sheep he possesses, but not how many friends.

Friends always forget those whom fortune forsakes.

To forget a friend is sad. Not everyone has had a friend.

A melancholy lesson of advancing years is the realisation that you can't make old friends.

The friends who met here and embraced are gone,
Each to his own mistake;

Friends should be weighed, not told; who boasts to have won a multitude of friends has never had one.

"An Eastern poet, Ali Ben Abu Taleb, writes with sad truth, — "He who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare,
And he who has one enemy shall meet him everywhere.

Without friends, no one would want to live, even if he had all other goods.