The Fables of La Fontaine, translated by Elizur Wright

    A beldam kept two spinning maids,
    Who plied so handily their trades,
    Those spinning sisters down below
Were bunglers when compared with these.
    No care did this old woman know
But giving tasks as she might please.
    No sooner did the god of day
      His glorious locks enkindle,
    Than both the wheels began to play,
      And from each whirling spindle
    Forth danced the thread right merrily,
    And back was coil'd unceasingly.
Soon as the dawn, I say, its tresses show'd,
    A graceless cock most punctual crow'd.
    The beldam roused, more graceless yet,
      In greasy petticoat bedight,
      Struck up her farthing light,
    And then forthwith the bed beset,
    Where deeply, blessedly did snore
    Those two maid-servants tired and poor.
    One oped an eye, an arm one stretch'd,
    And both their breath most sadly fetch'd,
    This threat concealing in the sigh--
    'That cursed cock shall surely die!'
    And so he did:--they cut his throat,
    And put to sleep his rousing note.
    And yet this murder mended not
    The cruel hardship of their lot;
    For now the twain were scarce in bed
    Before they heard the summons dread.
    The beldam, full of apprehension
    Lest oversleep should cause detention,
    Ran like a goblin through her mansion.
      Thus often, when one thinks
        To clear himself from ill,
      His effort only sinks
        Him in the deeper still.
      The beldam, acting for the cock,
      Was Scylla for Charybdis' rock.

VII.--THE SATYR AND THE TRAVELLER.[10]

Within a savage forest grot
    A satyr and his chips
Were taking down their porridge hot;
    Their cups were at their lips.

You might have seen in mossy den,
    Himself, his wife, and brood;
They had not tailor-clothes, like men,
    But appetites as good.

In came a traveller, benighted,
    All hungry, cold, and wet,
Who heard himself to eat invited
    With nothing like regret.

He did not give his host the pain
    His asking to repeat;
But first he blew with might and main
    To give his fingers heat.

Then in his steaming porridge dish
    He delicately blew.
The wondering satyr said, 'I wish
    The use of both I knew.'

'Why, first, my blowing warms my hand,
    And then it cools my porridge.'
'Ah!' said his host, 'then understand
    I cannot give you storage.
'To sleep beneath one roof with you,
    I may not be so bold.
Far be from me that mouth untrue
    Which blows both hot and cold.'

VIII.--THE HORSE AND THE WOLF.[11]

A wolf, what time the thawing breeze
Renews the life of plants and trees,
And beasts go forth from winter lair
To seek abroad their various fare,--
A wolf, I say, about those days,
In sharp look-out for means and ways,
Espied a horse turn'd out to graze.
His joy the reader may opine.
'Once got,' said he, 'this game were fine;
But if a sheep, 'twere sooner mine.
I can't proceed my usual way;
Some trick must now be put in play.'
            This said,
    He came with measured tread,
As if a healer of disease,--
Some pupil of Hippocrates,--
And told the horse, with learned verbs,
He knew the power of roots and herbs,--
Whatever grew about those borders,--
    And not at all to flatter
    Himself in such a matter,
    Could cure of all disorders.
If he, Sir Horse, would not conceal
    The symptoms of his case,
He, Doctor Wolf, would gratis heal;
For that to feed in such a place,
    And run about untied,
Was proof itself of some disease,
    As all the books decide.
'I have, good doctor, if you please,'
Replied the horse, 'as I presume,
Beneath my foot, an aposthume.'
'My son,' replied the learned leech,
'That part, as all our authors teach,
Is strikingly susceptible
Of ills which make acceptable
What you may also have from me--
The aid of skilful surgery;
Which noble art, the fact is,
For horses of the blood I practise.'
The fellow, with this talk sublime,
Watch'd for a snap the fitting time.
Meanwhile, suspicious of some trick,
    The wary patient nearer draws,
And gives his doctor such a kick,
    As makes a chowder of his jaws.
Exclaim'd the wolf, in sorry plight,
'I own those heels have served me right.
    I err'd to quit my trade,
      As I will not in future;
    Me nature surely made
      For nothing but a butcher.'

IX.--THE PLOUGHMAN AND HIS SONS.[12]

        The farmer's patient care and toil
        Are oftener wanting than the soil.

    A wealthy ploughman drawing near his end,
    Call'd in his sons apart from every friend,
      And said, 'When of your sire bereft,
      The heritage our fathers left
      Guard well, nor sell a single field.
      A treasure in it is conceal'd:
      The place, precisely, I don't know,
      But industry will serve to show.
      The harvest past, Time's forelock take,
      And search with plough, and spade, and rake;
      Turn over every inch of sod,
      Nor leave unsearch'd a single clod.'
The father died. The sons--and not in vain--
      Turn'd o'er the soil, and o'er again;
      That year their acres bore
      More grain than e'er before.
      Though hidden money found they none,
      Yet had their father wisely done,
        To show by such a measure,
        That toil itself is treasure.

X.--THE MOUNTAIN IN LABOUR.[13]

      A mountain was in travail pang;
      The country with her clamour rang.
        Out ran the people all, to see,
        Supposing that the birth would be
        A city, or at least a house.
            It was a mouse!

        In thinking of this fable,
          Of story feign'd and false,
        But meaning veritable,
          My mind the image calls
      Of one who writes, "The war I sing
Which Titans waged against the Thunder-king."[14]
      As on the sounding verses ring,
        What will be brought to birth?
                Why, dearth.

[13] Phaedrus, IV. 22.
[14] The War, &c.--The war of the Gods and Titans (sons of Heaven and Earth); vide Hesiod, Theogony, I. 1083, Bohn's ed.

XI.--FORTUNE AND THE BOY.[15]

    Beside a well, uncurb'd and deep,
    A schoolboy laid him down to sleep:
    (Such rogues can do so anywhere.)
    If some kind man had seen him there,
    He would have leap'd as if distracted;
    But Fortune much more wisely acted;
For, passing by, she softly waked the child,
Thus whispering in accents mild:
      'I save your life, my little dear,
      And beg you not to venture here
      Again, for had you fallen in,
      I should have had to bear the sin;
      But I demand, in reason's name,
      If for your rashness I'm to blame?'
    With this the goddess went her way.
    I like her logic, I must say.
    There takes place nothing on this planet,
    But Fortune ends, whoe'er began it.
    In all adventures good or ill,
    We look to her to foot the bill.
    Has one a stupid, empty pate,
    That serves him never till too late,
    He clears himself by blaming Fate!

XII.--THE DOCTORS.[16]

      The selfsame patient put to test
Two doctors, Fear-the-worst and Hope-the-best.
    The latter hoped; the former did maintain
    The man would take all medicine in vain.
    By different cures the patient was beset,
    But erelong cancell'd nature's debt,
                While nursed
    As was prescribed by Fear-the-worst.
    But over the disease both triumph'd still.
      Said one, 'I well foresaw his death.'
    'Yes,' said the other, 'but my pill
      Would certainly have saved his breath.'

XIII.--THE HEN WITH THE GOLDEN EGGS.[17]

    How avarice loseth all,
      By striving all to gain,
    I need no witness call
      But him whose thrifty hen,
    As by the fable we are told,
    Laid every day an egg of gold.
    'She hath a treasure in her body,'
    Bethinks the avaricious noddy.
    He kills and opens--vexed to find
    All things like hens of common kind.
Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches,
To misers he a lesson teaches.
    In these last changes of the moon,
      How often doth one see
      Men made as poor as he
    By force of getting rich too soon!

XIV.--THE ASS CARRYING RELICS.[18]

An ass, with relics for his load,
Supposed the worship on the road
    Meant for himself alone,
      And took on lofty airs,
    Receiving as his own
      The incense and the prayers.
Some one, who saw his great mistake,
Cried, 'Master Donkey, do not make
    Yourself so big a fool.
Not you they worship, but your pack;
They praise the idols on your back,
    And count yourself a paltry tool.'

    'Tis thus a brainless magistrate
    Is honour'd for his robe of state.

XV.--THE STAG AND THE VINE.[19]

A stag, by favour of a vine,
Which grew where suns most genial shine,
And form'd a thick and matted bower
Which might have turn'd a summer shower,
Was saved from ruinous assault.
The hunters thought their dogs at fault,
And call'd them off. In danger now no more
    The stag, a thankless wretch and vile,
Began to browse his benefactress o'er.
    The hunters, listening the while,
      The rustling heard, came back,
      With all their yelping pack,
    And seized him in that very place.
    'This is,' said he, 'but justice, in my case.
      Let every black ingrate
      Henceforward profit by my fate.'
    The dogs fell to--'twere wasting breath
    To pray those hunters at the death.
    They left, and we will not revile 'em,
    A warning for profaners of asylum.

XVI.--THE SERPENT AND THE FILE.[20]

A serpent, neighbour to a smith,
(A neighbour bad to meddle with,)
Went through his shop, in search of food,
But nothing found, 'tis understood,
To eat, except a file of steel,
Of which he tried to make a meal.
The file, without a spark of passion,
Address'd him in the following fashion:--
'Poor simpleton! you surely bite
With less of sense than appetite;
      For ere from me you gain
      One quarter of a grain,
    You'll break your teeth from ear to ear.
    Time's are the only teeth I fear.'

    This tale concerns those men of letters,
    Who, good for nothing, bite their betters.
    Their biting so is quite unwise.
      Think you, ye literary sharks,
      Your teeth will leave their marks
Upon the deathless works you criticise?
        Fie! fie! fie! men!
To you they're brass--they're steel--they're diamond!

XVII.--THE HARE AND THE PARTRIDGE.

      Beware how you deride
    The exiles from life's sunny side:
      To you is little known
    How soon their case may be your own.
On this, sage Aesop gives a tale or two,
As in my verses I propose to do.
        A field in common share
        A partridge and a hare,
        And live in peaceful state,
        Till, woeful to relate!
        The hunters' mingled cry
        Compels the hare to fly.
        He hurries to his fort,
        And spoils almost the sport
        By faulting every hound
        That yelps upon the ground.
        At last his reeking heat
        Betrays his snug retreat.
      Old Tray, with philosophic nose,
      Snuffs carefully, and grows
        So certain, that he cries,
          'The hare is here; bow wow!'
          And veteran Ranger now,--
        The dog that never lies,--
        'The hare is gone,' replies.
        Alas! poor, wretched hare,
        Back comes he to his lair,
        To meet destruction there!
        The partridge, void of fear,
        Begins her friend to jeer:--
        'You bragg'd of being fleet;
        How serve you, now, your feet?'
        Scarce has she ceased to speak,--
        The laugh yet in her beak,--
        When comes her turn to die,
        From which she could not fly.
        She thought her wings, indeed,
        Enough for every need;
        But in her laugh and talk,
        Forgot the cruel hawk!

XVIII.--THE EAGLE AND THE OWL.[21]

The eagle and the owl, resolved to cease
Their war, embraced in pledge of peace.
On faith of king, on faith of owl, they swore
That they would eat each other's chicks no more.
    'But know you mine?' said Wisdom's bird.[22]
      'Not I, indeed,' the eagle cried.
      'The worse for that,' the owl replied:
    'I fear your oath's a useless word;
      I fear that you, as king, will not
      Consider duly who or what:
    You kings and gods, of what's before ye,
    Are apt to make one category.
    Adieu, my young, if you should meet them!'
    'Describe them, then, or let me greet them,
    And, on my life, I will not eat them,'
    The eagle said. The owl replied:
    'My little ones, I say with pride,
    For grace of form cannot be match'd,--
    The prettiest birds that e'er were hatch'd;
    By this you cannot fail to know them;
    'Tis needless, therefore, that I show them.
    Pray don't forget, but keep this mark in view,
    Lest fate should curse my happy nest by you.'
    At length God gives the owl a set of heirs,
    And while at early eve abroad he fares,
      In quest of birds and mice for food,
      Our eagle haply spies the brood,
      As on some craggy rock they sprawl,
      Or nestle in some ruined wall,
      (But which it matters not at all,)
      And thinks them ugly little frights,
      Grim, sad, with voice like shrieking sprites.
'These chicks,' says he, 'with looks almost infernal,
Can't be the darlings of our friend nocturnal.
I'll sup of them.' And so he did, not slightly:--
He never sups, if he can help it, lightly.
      The owl return'd; and, sad, he found
      Nought left but claws upon the ground.
He pray'd the gods above and gods below
To smite the brigand who had caused his woe.
Quoth one, 'On you alone the blame must fall;
      Or rather on the law of nature,
      Which wills that every earthly creature
Shall think its like the loveliest of all.
You told the eagle of your young ones' graces;
      You gave the picture of their faces:--
      Had it of likeness any traces?'

[21] Avianus; also Verdizotti.
[22] Wisdom's bird.--The owl was the bird of Minerva, as the eagle was that of Jupiter.

XIX.--THE LION GOING TO WAR.[23]

The lion had an enterprise in hand;
    Held a war-council, sent his provost-marshal,
    And gave the animals a call impartial--
Each, in his way, to serve his high command.
The elephant should carry on his back
The tools of war, the mighty public pack,
And fight in elephantine way and form;
The bear should hold himself prepared to storm;
The fox all secret stratagems should fix;
The monkey should amuse the foe by tricks.
'Dismiss,' said one, 'the blockhead asses,
    And hares, too cowardly and fleet.'
'No,' said the king; 'I use all classes;
    Without their aid my force were incomplete.
The ass shall be our trumpeter, to scare
Our enemy. And then the nimble hare
Our royal bulletins shall homeward bear.'

    A monarch provident and wise
Will hold his subjects all of consequence,
    And know in each what talent lies.
There's nothing useless to a man of sense.

XX.--THE BEAR AND THE TWO COMPANIONS.[24]

      Two fellows, needing funds, and bold,
      A bearskin to a furrier sold,
      Of which the bear was living still,
      But which they presently would kill--
        At least they said they would.
        And, if their word was good,
      It was a king of bears--an Ursa Major--
        The biggest bear beneath the sun.
      Its skin, the chaps would wager,
        Was cheap at double cost;
        'Twould make one laugh at frost--
        And make two robes as well as one.
      Old Dindenaut,[25] in sheep who dealt,
      Less prized his sheep, than they their pelt--
        (In their account 'twas theirs,
        But in his own, the bears.)
      By bargain struck upon the skin,
      Two days at most must bring it in.
Forth went the two. More easy found than got,
    The bear came growling at them on the trot.
    Behold our dealers both confounded,
    As if by thunderbolt astounded!
Their bargain vanish'd suddenly in air;
For who could plead his interest with a bear?
    One of the friends sprung up a tree;
    The other, cold as ice could be,
      Fell on his face, feign'd death,
      And closely held his breath,--
    He having somewhere heard it said
    The bear ne'er preys upon the dead.
    Sir Bear, sad blockhead, was deceived--
    The prostrate man a corpse believed;
    But, half suspecting some deceit,
    He feels and snuffs from head to feet,
      And in the nostrils blows.
    The body's surely dead, he thinks.
    'I'll leave it,' says he, 'for it stinks;'
      And off into the woods he goes.
    The other dealer, from his tree
    Descending cautiously, to see
    His comrade lying in the dirt,
      Consoling, says, 'It is a wonder
      That, by the monster forced asunder,
    We're, after all, more scared than hurt.
    But,' addeth he, 'what of the creature's skin?
    He held his muzzle very near;
    What did he whisper in your ear?'
    'He gave this caution,--"Never dare
    Again to sell the skin of bear
    Its owner has not ceased to wear."'[26]

[24] Versions will be found in Aesop, Avianus, and Abstemius.
[25] Old Dindenaut.--Vide Rabelais, Pantagruel, Book IV. chap. viii.--Translator. The character in Rabelais is a sheep-stealer as well as a sheep-dealer.
[26] According to Philip de Commines, the Emperor Frederic III. of Germany used a story conveying the substance of this fable, with its moral of Never sell your bear-skin till the beast is dead, as his sole reply to the ambassadors of the French king when that monarch sent him proposals for dividing between them the provinces of the Duke of Burgundy. The meaning of which was, says de Commines, "That if the King came according to his promise, they would take the Duke, if they could; and when he was taken, they would talk of dividing his dominions."-- Vide Bohn's edition of the "Memoirs of De Commines," vol. i., p. 246.

XXI.--THE ASS DRESSED IN THE LION'S SKIN.[27]

    Clad in a lion's shaggy hide,
    An ass spread terror far and wide,
    And, though himself a coward brute,
    Put all the world to scampering rout:
      But, by a piece of evil luck,
      A portion of an ear outstuck,
      Which soon reveal'd the error
      Of all the panic-terror.
    Old Martin did his office quick.
Surprised were all who did not know the trick,
      To see that Martin,[28] at his will,
      Was driving lions to the mill!

      In France, the men are not a few
      Of whom this fable proves too true;
      Whose valour chiefly doth reside
      In coat they wear and horse they ride.

[27] Aesop, and Avianus.
[28] Martin.--Martin-bâton, again as in Fable V., Book IV.

BOOK VI.

I.--THE SHEPHERD AND THE LION.[1]

Of fables judge not by their face;
They give the simplest brute a teacher's place.
Bare precepts were inert and tedious things;
The story gives them life and wings.
    But story for the story's sake
      Were sorry business for the wise;
    As if, for pill that one should take,
      You gave the sugary disguise.
      For reasons such as these,
    Full many writers great and good
    Have written in this frolic mood,
      And made their wisdom please.
But tinsel'd style they all have shunn'd with care;
With them one never sees a word to spare.
Of Phaedrus some have blamed the brevity,
While Aesop uses fewer words than he.
      A certain Greek,[2] however, beats
      Them both in his larconic feats.
      Each tale he locks in verses four;
The well or ill I leave to critic lore.
At Aesop's side to see him let us aim,
Upon a theme substantially the same.
The one selects a lover of the chase;
A shepherd comes, the other's tale to grace.
Their tracks I keep, though either tale may grow
A little in its features as I go.

The one which Aesop tells is nearly this:--
A shepherd from his flock began to miss,
And long'd to catch the stealer of, his sheep.
      Before a cavern, dark and deep,
      Where wolves retired by day to sleep,
      Which he suspected as the thieves,
      He set his trap among the leaves;
      And, ere he left the place,
      He thus invoked celestial grace:--
      'O king of all the powers divine,
Against the rogue but grant me this delight,
That this my trap may catch him in my sight,
    And I, from twenty calves of mine,
      Will make the fattest thine.'
    But while the words were on his tongue,
    Forth came a lion great and strong.
    Down crouch'd the man of sheep, and said,
      With shivering fright half dead,
'Alas! that man should never be aware
Of what may be the meaning of his prayer!
      To catch the robber of my flocks,
    O king of gods, I pledged a calf to thee:
    If from his clutches thou wilt rescue me,
      I'll raise my offering to an ox.'

'Tis thus the master-author[3] tells the story:
      Now hear the rival of his glory.

[1] Aesop.
[2] A certain Greek.--Gabrias.--La Fontaine. This is Babrias, the Greek fabulist, to whom La Fontaine gives the older form of his name. La Fontaine's strictures on this "rival" of Aesop proceed from the fact that he read the author in the corrupted form of the edition by Ignatius Magister (ninth century). It was not till a century after La Fontaine wrote, that the fame of Babrias was cleared by Bentley and Tyrwhitt, who brought his Fables to light in their original form.
[3] Master-author, &c.--The "master-author" is Aesop; the rival, Gabrias, or Babrias. The last line refers the reader to the following fable for comparison. In the original editions of La Fontaine, the two fables appear together with the heading "Fables I. et II."

II.--THE LION AND THE HUNTER.[4]

    A braggart, lover of the chase,
    Had lost a dog of valued race,
    And thought him in a lion's maw.
    He ask'd a shepherd whom he saw,
    'Pray show me, man, the robber's place,
    And I'll have justice in the case.'
        ''Tis on this mountain side,'
        The shepherd man replied.
    'The tribute of a sheep I pay,
Each month, and where I please I stray.'
    Out leap'd the lion as he spake,
      And came that way, with agile feet.
    The braggart, prompt his flight to take,
      Cried, 'Jove, O grant a safe retreat!'

      A danger close at hand
        Of courage is the test.
      It shows us who will stand--
        Whose legs will run their best.

III.--PHOEBUS AND BOREAS.[5]

    Old Boreas and the sun, one day
    Espied a traveller on his way,
    Whose dress did happily provide
    Against whatever might betide.
    The time was autumn, when, indeed,
    All prudent travellers take heed.
    The rains that then the sunshine dash,
    And Iris with her splendid sash,
    Warn one who does not like to soak
    To wear abroad a good thick cloak.
    Our man was therefore well bedight
    With double mantle, strong and tight.
    'This fellow,' said the wind, 'has meant
    To guard from every ill event;
    But little does he wot that I
      Can blow him such a blast
      That, not a button fast,
    His cloak shall cleave the sky.
    Come, here's a pleasant game, Sir Sun!
      Wilt play?' Said Phoebus, 'Done!
      We'll bet between us here
      Which first will take the gear
      From off this cavalier.
      Begin, and shut away.
      The brightness of my ray.'
    'Enough.' Our blower, on the bet,
      Swell'd out his pursy form
      With all the stuff for storm--
    The thunder, hail, and drenching wet,
    And all the fury he could muster;
    Then, with a very demon's bluster,
    He whistled, whirl'd, and splash'd,
    And down the torrents dash'd,
      Full many a roof uptearing
        He never did before,
      Full many a vessel bearing
        To wreck upon the shore,--
      And all to doff a single cloak.
      But vain the furious stroke;
        The traveller was stout,
        And kept the tempest out,
        Defied the hurricane,
        Defied the pelting rain;
    And as the fiercer roar'd the blast,
    His cloak the tighter held he fast.
    The sun broke out, to win the bet;
      He caused the clouds to disappear,
      Refresh'd and warm'd the cavalier,
    And through his mantle made him sweat,
        Till off it came, of course,
        In less than half an hour;
    And yet the sun saved half his power.--
So much doth mildness more than force.

IV.--JUPITER AND THE FARMER.[6]

    Of yore, a farm had Jupiter to rent;
    To advertise it, Mercury was sent.
      The farmers, far and near,
      Flock'd round, the terms to hear;
      And, calling to their aid
      The various tricks of trade,
    One said 'twas rash a farm to hire
    Which would so much expense require;
    Another, that, do what you would,
    The farm would still be far from good.
While thus, in market style, its faults were told,
One of the crowd, less wise than bold,
    Would give so much, on this condition,
That Jove would yield him altogether
The choice and making of his weather,--
    That, instantly on his decision,
    His various crops should feel the power
    Of heat or cold, of sun or shower.

    Jove yields. The bargain closed, our man
      Rains, blows, and takes the care
      Of all the changes of the air,
    On his peculiar, private plan.
      His nearest neighbours felt it not,
      And all the better was their lot.
      Their year was good, by grace divine;
      The grain was rich, and full the vine.
      The renter, failing altogether,
    The next year made quite different weather;
      And yet the fruit of all his labours
      Was far inferior to his neighbours'.
    What better could he do? To Heaven
      He owns at last his want of sense,
    And so is graciously forgiven.
      Hence we conclude that Providence
        Knows better what we need
        Than we ourselves, indeed.

V.--THE COCKEREL, THE CAT, AND THE YOUNG MOUSE.[7]

    A youthful mouse, not up to trap,
    Had almost met a sad mishap.
    The story hear him thus relate,
      With great importance, to his mother:--
'I pass'd the mountain bounds of this estate,
      And off was trotting on another,
    Like some young rat with nought to do
    But see things wonderful and new,
    When two strange creatures came in view.
    The one was mild, benign, and gracious;
    The other, turbulent, rapacious,
    With voice terrific, shrill, and rough,
    And on his head a bit of stuff
    That look'd like raw and bloody meat,
    Raised up a sort of arms, and beat
    The air, as if he meant to fly,
    And bore his plumy tail on high.'

    A cock, that just began to crow,
      As if some nondescript,
      From far New Holland shipp'd,
    Was what our mousling pictured so.
'He beat his arms,' said he, 'and raised his voice,
    And made so terrible a noise,
That I, who, thanks to Heaven, may justly boast
    Myself as bold as any mouse,
Scud off, (his voice would even scare a ghost!)
    And cursed himself and all his house;
    For, but for him, I should have staid,
    And doubtless an acquaintance made
    With her who seem'd so mild and good.
    Like us, in velvet cloak and hood,
    She wears a tail that's full of grace,
    A very sweet and humble face,--
    No mouse more kindness could desire,--
    And yet her eye is full of fire.
    I do believe the lovely creature
    A friend of rats and mice by nature.
    Her ears, though, like herself, they're bigger,
    Are just like ours in form and figure.
    To her I was approaching, when,
    Aloft on what appear'd his den,
    The other scream'd,--and off I fled.'
    'My son,' his cautious mother said,
        'That sweet one was the cat,
        The mortal foe of mouse and rat,
        Who seeks by smooth deceit,
        Her appetite to treat.
        So far the other is from that,
               We yet may eat
               His dainty meat;
        Whereas the cruel cat,
        Whene'er she can, devours
        No other meat than ours.'

        Remember while you live,
        It is by looks that men deceive.

VI.--THE FOX, THE MONKEY, AND THE ANIMALS.[8]

    Left kingless by the lion's death,
    The beasts once met, our story saith,
    Some fit successor to install.
Forth from a dragon-guarded, moated place,
The crown was brought, and, taken from its case,
    And being tried by turns on all,
    The heads of most were found too small;
    Some hornèd were, and some too big;
      Not one would fit the regal gear.
    For ever ripe for such a rig,
      The monkey, looking very queer,
    Approach'd with antics and grimaces,
    And, after scores of monkey faces,
With what would seem a gracious stoop,
Pass'd through the crown as through a hoop.
    The beasts, diverted with the thing,
    Did homage to him as their king.
    The fox alone the vote regretted,
    But yet in public never fretted.
    When he his compliments had paid
    To royalty, thus newly made,
    'Great sire, I know a place,' said he,
      'Where lies conceal'd a treasure,
    Which, by the right of royalty,
      Should bide your royal pleasure.'
    The king lack'd not an appetite
      For such financial pelf,
    And, not to lose his royal right,
      Ran straight to see it for himself.
    It was a trap, and he was caught.
    Said Renard, 'Would you have it thought,
    You ape, that you can fill a throne,
    And guard the rights of all, alone,
    Not knowing how to guard your own?'

    The beasts all gather'd from the farce,
    That stuff for kings is very scarce.

VII.--THE MULE BOASTING OF HIS GENEALOGY.[9]

A prelate's mule of noble birth was proud,
      And talk'd, incessantly and loud,
      Of nothing but his dam, the mare,
Whose mighty deeds by him recounted were,--
This had she done, and had been present there,--
      By which her son made out his claim
      To notice on the scroll of Fame.
Too proud, when young, to bear a doctor's pill;
      When old, he had to turn a mill.
      As there they used his limbs to bind,
      His sire, the ass, was brought to mind.
      Misfortune, were its only use
      The claims of folly to reduce,
      And bring men down to sober reason,
      Would be a blessing in its season.

VIII.--THE OLD MAN AND THE ASS.[10]

An old man, riding on his ass,
Had found a spot of thrifty grass,
And there turn'd loose his weary beast.
Old Grizzle, pleased with such a feast,
Flung up his heels, and caper'd round,
Then roll'd and rubb'd upon the ground,
And frisk'd and browsed and bray'd,
And many a clean spot made.
Arm'd men came on them as he fed:
'Let's fly,' in haste the old man said.
'And wherefore so?' the ass replied;
'With heavier burdens will they ride?'
    'No,' said the man, already started.
    'Then,' cried the ass, as he departed,
    'I'll stay, and be--no matter whose;
    Save you yourself, and leave me loose.
    But let me tell you, ere you go,
    (I speak plain French, you know,)
    My master is my only foe.'

IX.--THE STAG SEEING HIMSELF IN THE WATER.[11]

    Beside a placid, crystal flood,
    A stag admired the branching wood
    That high upon his forehead stood,
    But gave his Maker little thanks
    For what he call'd his spindle shanks.
    'What limbs are these for such a head!--
    So mean and slim!' with grief he said.
        'My glorious heads o'ertops
        The branches of the copse;
        My legs are my disgrace.'
As thus he talk'd, a bloodhound gave him chase.
        To save his life he flew
        Where forests thickest grew.
      His horns,--pernicious ornament!--
      Arresting him where'er he went,
        Did unavailing render
          What else, in such a strife,
          Had saved his precious life--
        His legs, as fleet as slender.
      Obliged to yield, he cursed the gear
      Which nature gave him every year.

        Too much the beautiful we prize;
        The useful, often, we despise:
        Yet oft, as happen'd to the stag,
        The former doth to ruin drag.

X.--THE HARE AND THE TORTOISE.[12]

      To win a race, the swiftness of a dart
      Availeth not without a timely start.
    The hare and tortoise are my witnesses.
    Said tortoise to the swiftest thing that is,
    'I'll bet that you'll not reach, so soon as I
      The tree on yonder hill we spy.'
    'So soon! Why, madam, are you frantic?'
    Replied the creature, with an antic;
      'Pray take, your senses to restore,
      A grain or two of hellebore.'[13]
    'Say,' said the tortoise, 'what you will;
    I dare you to the wager still.'
      'Twas done; the stakes were paid,
      And near the goal tree laid--
    Of what, is not a question for this place,
    Nor who it was that judged the race.
    Our hare had scarce five jumps to make,
    Of such as he is wont to take,
    When, starting just before their beaks
      He leaves the hounds at leisure,
    Thence till the kalends of the Greeks,[14]
      The sterile heath to measure.
    Thus having time to browse and doze,
    And list which way the zephyr blows,
    He makes himself content to wait,
    And let the tortoise go her gait
    In solemn, senatorial state.
She starts; she moils on, modestly and lowly,
And with a prudent wisdom hastens slowly;
    But he, meanwhile, the victory despises,
      Thinks lightly of such prizes,
      Believes it for his honour
    To take late start and gain upon her.
      So, feeding, sitting at his ease,
      He meditates of what you please,
      Till his antagonist he sees
      Approach the goal; then starts,
      Away like lightning darts:
      But vainly does he run;
    The race is by the tortoise won.
      Cries she, 'My senses do I lack?
    What boots your boasted swiftness now?
    You're beat! and yet, you must allow,
      I bore my house upon my back.'

[12] Aesop; also Lokman.
[13] Hellebore.--The ancient remedy for insanity.
[14] Kalends of the Greeks.--The Greeks, unlike the Romans, had no kalends in their computation of time, hence the frequent use of this expression to convey the idea of an indefinite period of time.

VI.--THE OLD WOMAN AND HER TWO SERVANTS.[9]