By Jean de La Fontaine
A poor unfortunate, from day to day,
Called Death to take him from this world away.
"O Deathe he said, "to me how fair your form!
Come quick, and end for me life's cruel storm."
Death heard, and with a ghastly grin,
Knocked at his door, and entered in
"Take out this object from my sight!"
The poor man loudly cried.
"Its dreadful looks I can't abide;
O stay him, stay him" let him come no nigher;
O Death! O Death! I pray you to retire!"
A gentleman of note
In Rome, Maecenas,[20] somewhere wrote:
"Make me the poorest wretch that begs,
Sore, hungry, crippled, clothed in rags,
In hopeless impotence of arms and legs;
Provided, after all, you give
The one sweet liberty to live:
I'll ask of Death no greater favour
Than just to stay away for ever."
Saturday 30 June 2018
Wednesday 27 June 2018
Simonides Preserved By The Gods
By Jean de La Fontaine
Three sorts there are, as Malherbe says,
Which one can never overpraise—
The gods, the ladies, and the king;
And I, for one, endorse the thing.
The heart, praise tickles and entices;
Of fair one's smile, it often the price is.
See how the gods sometimes repay it.
Simonides—the ancients say it—
Once undertook, in poem lyric,
To write a wrestler's panegyric;
Which, before he had proceeded far in,
He found his subject somewhat barren.
No ancestors of great renown;
His sire of some unnoted town;
Himself as little known to fame,
The wrestler's praise was rather tame.
The poet, having made the most of
Whatever his hero had to boast of,
Digressed, by choice that was not all luck's,
To Castor and his brother Pollux;
Whose bright career was subject ample,
For wrestlers, sure, a good example.
Our poet fattened on their story,
Gave every fight its place and glory,
Till of his panegyric words
These deities had got two-thirds.
All done, the poet's fee
A talent was to be.
But when he comes his bill to settle,
The wrestler, with a spice of mettle,
Pays down a third, and tells the poet,
"The balance they may pay who owe it.
The gods than I are rather debtors
To such a pious man of letters.
But still I shall be greatly pleased
To have your presence at my feast,
Among a knot of guests select,
My kin, and friends I most respect."
More fond of character than coffer,
Simonides accepts the offer.
While at the feast the party sit,
And wine provokes the flow of wit,
It is announced that at the gate
Two men, in haste that cannot wait,
Would see the bard. He leaves the table,
No loss at all to "ts noisy gabble.
The men were Leda's twins, who knew
What to a poet's praise was due,
And, thanking, paid him by foretelling
The downfall of the wrestler's dwelling.
From which ill-fated pile, indeed,
No sooner was the poet freed,
Than, props and pillars failing,
Which held aloft the ceiling
So splendid over them,
It downward loudly crashed,
The plates and flagons dashed,
And men who bore them;
And, what was worse,
Full vengeance for the man of verse,
A timber broke the wrestler's thighs,
And wounded many otherwise.
The gossip Fame, of course, took care
Abroad to publish this affair.
"A miracle!" the public cried, delighted.
No more could god-beloved bard be slighted.
His verse now brought him more than double,
With neither duns, nor care, nor trouble.
Whoever laid claim to noble birth
Must buy his ancestors a slice,
Resolved no nobleman on earth
Should overgo him in the price.
From which these serious lessons flow:
Fail not your praises to bestow
On gods and godlike men. Again,
To sell the product of her pain
Is not degrading to the Muse.
Indeed, her art they do abuse,
Who think her wares to use,
And yet a liberal pay refuse.
Whatever the great confer on her,
They're honoured by it while they honour.
Of old, Olympus and Parnassus
In friendship heaved their sky-crowned masses.
Three sorts there are, as Malherbe says,
Which one can never overpraise—
The gods, the ladies, and the king;
And I, for one, endorse the thing.
The heart, praise tickles and entices;
Of fair one's smile, it often the price is.
See how the gods sometimes repay it.
Simonides—the ancients say it—
Once undertook, in poem lyric,
To write a wrestler's panegyric;
Which, before he had proceeded far in,
He found his subject somewhat barren.
No ancestors of great renown;
His sire of some unnoted town;
Himself as little known to fame,
The wrestler's praise was rather tame.
The poet, having made the most of
Whatever his hero had to boast of,
Digressed, by choice that was not all luck's,
To Castor and his brother Pollux;
Whose bright career was subject ample,
For wrestlers, sure, a good example.
Our poet fattened on their story,
Gave every fight its place and glory,
Till of his panegyric words
These deities had got two-thirds.
All done, the poet's fee
A talent was to be.
But when he comes his bill to settle,
The wrestler, with a spice of mettle,
Pays down a third, and tells the poet,
"The balance they may pay who owe it.
The gods than I are rather debtors
To such a pious man of letters.
But still I shall be greatly pleased
To have your presence at my feast,
Among a knot of guests select,
My kin, and friends I most respect."
More fond of character than coffer,
Simonides accepts the offer.
While at the feast the party sit,
And wine provokes the flow of wit,
It is announced that at the gate
Two men, in haste that cannot wait,
Would see the bard. He leaves the table,
No loss at all to "ts noisy gabble.
The men were Leda's twins, who knew
What to a poet's praise was due,
And, thanking, paid him by foretelling
The downfall of the wrestler's dwelling.
From which ill-fated pile, indeed,
No sooner was the poet freed,
Than, props and pillars failing,
Which held aloft the ceiling
So splendid over them,
It downward loudly crashed,
The plates and flagons dashed,
And men who bore them;
And, what was worse,
Full vengeance for the man of verse,
A timber broke the wrestler's thighs,
And wounded many otherwise.
The gossip Fame, of course, took care
Abroad to publish this affair.
"A miracle!" the public cried, delighted.
No more could god-beloved bard be slighted.
His verse now brought him more than double,
With neither duns, nor care, nor trouble.
Whoever laid claim to noble birth
Must buy his ancestors a slice,
Resolved no nobleman on earth
Should overgo him in the price.
From which these serious lessons flow:
Fail not your praises to bestow
On gods and godlike men. Again,
To sell the product of her pain
Is not degrading to the Muse.
Indeed, her art they do abuse,
Who think her wares to use,
And yet a liberal pay refuse.
Whatever the great confer on her,
They're honoured by it while they honour.
Of old, Olympus and Parnassus
In friendship heaved their sky-crowned masses.
Sunday 24 June 2018
The Thieves and the Ass
By Jean de La Fontaine
Two thieves, pursuing their profession,
Had of a donkey got possession,
Whereon a strife arose,
Which went from words to blows.
The question was, to sell, or not to sell;
But while our sturdy champions fought it well,
Another thief, who chanced to pass,
With ready wit rode off the ass.
This ass is, by interpretation,
Some province poor, or prostrate nation.
The thieves are princes this and that,
On spoils and plunder prone to fat,—
As those of Austria, Turkey, Hungary.
(Instead of two, I have quoted three—
Enough of such commodity.)
These powers engaged in war all,
Some fourth thief stops the quarrel,
According all to one key,
By riding off the donkey.
Two thieves, pursuing their profession,
Had of a donkey got possession,
Whereon a strife arose,
Which went from words to blows.
The question was, to sell, or not to sell;
But while our sturdy champions fought it well,
Another thief, who chanced to pass,
With ready wit rode off the ass.
This ass is, by interpretation,
Some province poor, or prostrate nation.
The thieves are princes this and that,
On spoils and plunder prone to fat,—
As those of Austria, Turkey, Hungary.
(Instead of two, I have quoted three—
Enough of such commodity.)
These powers engaged in war all,
Some fourth thief stops the quarrel,
According all to one key,
By riding off the donkey.
Thursday 21 June 2018
The Dragon With Many Heads, and the Dragon With Many Tails
By Jean de La Fontaine
An envoy of the Porte Sublime,
As history says, once on a time,
Before the imperial German court
Did rather boastfully report,
The troops commanded by his master's firman,
As being a stronger army than the German:
To which replied a Dutch attendant,
"Our prince has more than one dependant
Who keeps an army at his own expense."
The Turk, a man of sense,
Rejoined, "I am aware
What power your emperor's servants share.
It brings to mind a tale both strange and true,
A thing which once, myself, I chanced to view.
I saw come darting through a hedge,
Which fortified a rocky ledge,
A hydra's hundred heads; and in a trice
My blood was turning into ice.
But less the harm than terror,—
The body came no nearer;
Nor could, unless it had been sundered,
To parts at least a hundred.
While musing deeply on this sight,
Another dragon came to light,
Whose single head avails
To lead a hundred tails:
And, seized with juster fright,
I saw him pass the hedge,—
Head, body, tails,—a wedge
Of living and resistless powers.—
The other was your emperor's force; this ours."
An envoy of the Porte Sublime,
As history says, once on a time,
Before the imperial German court
Did rather boastfully report,
The troops commanded by his master's firman,
As being a stronger army than the German:
To which replied a Dutch attendant,
"Our prince has more than one dependant
Who keeps an army at his own expense."
The Turk, a man of sense,
Rejoined, "I am aware
What power your emperor's servants share.
It brings to mind a tale both strange and true,
A thing which once, myself, I chanced to view.
I saw come darting through a hedge,
Which fortified a rocky ledge,
A hydra's hundred heads; and in a trice
My blood was turning into ice.
But less the harm than terror,—
The body came no nearer;
Nor could, unless it had been sundered,
To parts at least a hundred.
While musing deeply on this sight,
Another dragon came to light,
Whose single head avails
To lead a hundred tails:
And, seized with juster fright,
I saw him pass the hedge,—
Head, body, tails,—a wedge
Of living and resistless powers.—
The other was your emperor's force; this ours."
Monday 18 June 2018
The Man And His Image
By Jean de La Fontaine
To M. The Duke De La Rochefoucauld.
A man, who had no rivals in the love
Which to himself he bore,
Esteemed his own dear beauty far above
What earth had seen before.
More than contented in his error,
He lived the foe of every mirror.
Officious fate, resolved our lover
From such an illness should recover,
Presented always to his eyes
The mute advisers which the ladies prize;—
Mirrors in parlours, inns, and shops,—
Mirrors the pocket furniture of fops,—
Mirrors on every lady's zone,
From which his face reflected shone.
What could our dear Narcissus do?
From haunts of men he now withdrew,
On purpose that his precious shape
From every mirror might escape.
But in his forest glen alone,
Apart from human trace,
A watercourse,
Of purest source,
While with unconscious gaze
He pierced its waveless face,
Reflected back his own.
Incensed with mingled rage and fright,
He seeks to shun the odious sight;
But yet that mirror sheet, so clear and still,
He cannot leave, do what he will.
Before this, my story's drift you plainly see.
From such mistake there is no mortal free.
That obstinate self-lover
The human soul does cover;
The mirrors follies are of others,
In which, as all are genuine brothers,
Each soul may see to life depicted
Itself with just such faults afflicted;
And by that charming placid brook,
Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book.
To M. The Duke De La Rochefoucauld.
A man, who had no rivals in the love
Which to himself he bore,
Esteemed his own dear beauty far above
What earth had seen before.
More than contented in his error,
He lived the foe of every mirror.
Officious fate, resolved our lover
From such an illness should recover,
Presented always to his eyes
The mute advisers which the ladies prize;—
Mirrors in parlours, inns, and shops,—
Mirrors the pocket furniture of fops,—
Mirrors on every lady's zone,
From which his face reflected shone.
What could our dear Narcissus do?
From haunts of men he now withdrew,
On purpose that his precious shape
From every mirror might escape.
But in his forest glen alone,
Apart from human trace,
A watercourse,
Of purest source,
While with unconscious gaze
He pierced its waveless face,
Reflected back his own.
Incensed with mingled rage and fright,
He seeks to shun the odious sight;
But yet that mirror sheet, so clear and still,
He cannot leave, do what he will.
Before this, my story's drift you plainly see.
From such mistake there is no mortal free.
That obstinate self-lover
The human soul does cover;
The mirrors follies are of others,
In which, as all are genuine brothers,
Each soul may see to life depicted
Itself with just such faults afflicted;
And by that charming placid brook,
Needless to say, I mean your Maxim Book.
Friday 15 June 2018
The Wolf and the Lamb
By Jean de La Fontaine
That innocence is not a shield,
A story teaches, not the longest.
The strongest reasons always yield
To reasons of the strongest.
A lamb her thirst was slaking,
Once, at a mountain rill.
A hungry wolf was taking
His hunt for sheep to kill,
When, spying on the streamlet's brink
This sheep of tender age,
He howled in tones of rage,
"How dare you roil my drink?
Your impudence I shall chastise!"
"Let not your majesty," the lamb replies,
"Decide in haste or passion!
For sure It's difficult to think
In what respect or fashion
My drinking here could roil your drink,
Since on the stream your majesty now faces
I'm lower down, full twenty paces."
"You roil it," said the wolf; "and, more, I know
You cursed and slandered me a year ago."
"O no! how could I such a thing have done!
A lamb that has not seen a year,
A suckling of its mother dear?"
"Your brother then." "But brother I have none."
"Well, well, what's all the same,
It was some one of your name.
Sheep, men, and dogs of every nation,
Are wont to stab my reputation,
As I have truly heard."
Without another word,
He made his vengeance good—
Bore off the lambkin to the wood,
And there, without a jury,
Judged, slew, and ate her in his fury.
That innocence is not a shield,
A story teaches, not the longest.
The strongest reasons always yield
To reasons of the strongest.
A lamb her thirst was slaking,
Once, at a mountain rill.
A hungry wolf was taking
His hunt for sheep to kill,
When, spying on the streamlet's brink
This sheep of tender age,
He howled in tones of rage,
"How dare you roil my drink?
Your impudence I shall chastise!"
"Let not your majesty," the lamb replies,
"Decide in haste or passion!
For sure It's difficult to think
In what respect or fashion
My drinking here could roil your drink,
Since on the stream your majesty now faces
I'm lower down, full twenty paces."
"You roil it," said the wolf; "and, more, I know
You cursed and slandered me a year ago."
"O no! how could I such a thing have done!
A lamb that has not seen a year,
A suckling of its mother dear?"
"Your brother then." "But brother I have none."
"Well, well, what's all the same,
It was some one of your name.
Sheep, men, and dogs of every nation,
Are wont to stab my reputation,
As I have truly heard."
Without another word,
He made his vengeance good—
Bore off the lambkin to the wood,
And there, without a jury,
Judged, slew, and ate her in his fury.
Tuesday 12 June 2018
The City Rat and the Country Rat
By Jean de La Fontaine
A city rat, one night,
Did, with a civil stoop,
A country rat invite
To end a turtle soup.
On a Turkey carpet
They found the table spread,
And sure I need not harp it
How well the fellows fed.
The entertainment was
A truly noble one;
But some unlucky cause
Disturbed it when begun.
It was a slight rat-tat,
That put their joys to rout;
Out ran the city rat;
His guest, too, scampered out.
Our rats but fairly quit,
The fearful knocking ceased.
"Return we," cried the cit,
To finish there our feast.
"No," said the rustic rat;
"Tomorrow dine with me.
I'm not offended at
Your feast so grand and free,—
"For I have no fare resembling;
But then I eat at leisure,
And would not swap, for pleasure
So mixed with fear and trembling."
A city rat, one night,
Did, with a civil stoop,
A country rat invite
To end a turtle soup.
On a Turkey carpet
They found the table spread,
And sure I need not harp it
How well the fellows fed.
The entertainment was
A truly noble one;
But some unlucky cause
Disturbed it when begun.
It was a slight rat-tat,
That put their joys to rout;
Out ran the city rat;
His guest, too, scampered out.
Our rats but fairly quit,
The fearful knocking ceased.
"Return we," cried the cit,
To finish there our feast.
"No," said the rustic rat;
"Tomorrow dine with me.
I'm not offended at
Your feast so grand and free,—
"For I have no fare resembling;
But then I eat at leisure,
And would not swap, for pleasure
So mixed with fear and trembling."
Saturday 9 June 2018
The Swallow and the Little Birds
By Jean de La Fontaine
By voyages in air,
With constant thought and care,
Much knowledge had a swallow gained,
Which she for public use retained,
The slightest storms she well foreknew,
And told the sailors before they blew.
A farmer sowing hemp, once having found,
She gathered all the little birds around,
And said, "My friends, the freedom let me take
To prophesy a little, for your sake,
Against this dangerous seed.
Though such a bird as I
Knows how to hide or fly,
You birds a caution need.
Do you see that waving hand?
It scatters on the land
What well may cause alarm.
"Twill grow to nets and snares,
To catch you unawares,
And work you fatal harm!
Great multitudes I fear,
Of you, my birdies dear,
That falling seed, so little,
Will bring to cage or kettle!
But though so perilous the plot,
You now may easily defeat it:
All lighting on the seeded spot,
Just scratch up every seed and eat it."
The little birds took little heed,
So fed were they with other seed.
Anon the field was seen
Bedecked in tender green.
The swallow's warning voice was heard again:
"My friends, the product of that deadly grain,
Seize now, and pull it root by root,
Or surely you'll repent its fruit."
"False, babbling prophetess," says one,
"You'd set us at some pretty fun!
To pull this field a thousand birds are needed,
While thousands more with hemp are seeded."
The crop now quite mature,
The swallow adds, "Thus far I have failed of cure;
I have prophesied in vain
Against this fatal grain:
It's grown. And now, my bonny birds,
Though you have disbelieved my words
Thus far, take heed at last,—
When you shall see the seed-time past,
And men, no crops to labour for,
On birds shall wage their cruel war,
With deadly net and noose;
Of flying then beware,
Unless you take the air,
Like woodcock, crane, or goose.
But stop; you're not in plight
For such adventurous flight,
Over desert waves and sands,
In search of other lands.
Hence, then, to save your precious souls,
Remains but to say,
"Twill be the safest way,
To chuck yourselves in holes."
Before she had thus far gone,
The birdlings, tired of hearing,
And laughing more than fearing,
Set up a greater jargon
Than did, before the Trojan slaughter,
The Trojans round old Priam's daughter.
And many a bird, in prison grate,
Lamented soon a Trojan fate.
It's thus we heed no instincts but our own;
Believe no evil till the evil's done.
Notes
Priam's daughter.—Cassandra, who predicted the fall of Troy, and was not heeded.
By voyages in air,
With constant thought and care,
Much knowledge had a swallow gained,
Which she for public use retained,
The slightest storms she well foreknew,
And told the sailors before they blew.
A farmer sowing hemp, once having found,
She gathered all the little birds around,
And said, "My friends, the freedom let me take
To prophesy a little, for your sake,
Against this dangerous seed.
Though such a bird as I
Knows how to hide or fly,
You birds a caution need.
Do you see that waving hand?
It scatters on the land
What well may cause alarm.
"Twill grow to nets and snares,
To catch you unawares,
And work you fatal harm!
Great multitudes I fear,
Of you, my birdies dear,
That falling seed, so little,
Will bring to cage or kettle!
But though so perilous the plot,
You now may easily defeat it:
All lighting on the seeded spot,
Just scratch up every seed and eat it."
The little birds took little heed,
So fed were they with other seed.
Anon the field was seen
Bedecked in tender green.
The swallow's warning voice was heard again:
"My friends, the product of that deadly grain,
Seize now, and pull it root by root,
Or surely you'll repent its fruit."
"False, babbling prophetess," says one,
"You'd set us at some pretty fun!
To pull this field a thousand birds are needed,
While thousands more with hemp are seeded."
The crop now quite mature,
The swallow adds, "Thus far I have failed of cure;
I have prophesied in vain
Against this fatal grain:
It's grown. And now, my bonny birds,
Though you have disbelieved my words
Thus far, take heed at last,—
When you shall see the seed-time past,
And men, no crops to labour for,
On birds shall wage their cruel war,
With deadly net and noose;
Of flying then beware,
Unless you take the air,
Like woodcock, crane, or goose.
But stop; you're not in plight
For such adventurous flight,
Over desert waves and sands,
In search of other lands.
Hence, then, to save your precious souls,
Remains but to say,
"Twill be the safest way,
To chuck yourselves in holes."
Before she had thus far gone,
The birdlings, tired of hearing,
And laughing more than fearing,
Set up a greater jargon
Than did, before the Trojan slaughter,
The Trojans round old Priam's daughter.
And many a bird, in prison grate,
Lamented soon a Trojan fate.
It's thus we heed no instincts but our own;
Believe no evil till the evil's done.
Notes
Priam's daughter.—Cassandra, who predicted the fall of Troy, and was not heeded.
Wednesday 6 June 2018
The Wallet
By Jean de La Fontaine
From heaven, one day, did Jupiter proclaim,
"Let all that live before my throne appear,
And there if any one has anything to blame,
In matter, form, or texture of his frame,
He may bring forth his grievance without fear.
Redress shall instantly be given to each.
Come, monkey, now, first let us have your speech.
You see these quadrupeds, your brothers;
Comparing, then, yourself with others,
Are you well satisfied?" "And why not?"
Says Jock. "Haven't I four trotters with the rest?
Is not my visage comely as the best?
But this my brother Bruin, is a blot
On your creation fair;
And sooner than be painted I had be shot,
Were I, great sire, a bear."
The bear approaching, does he make complaint?
Not he;—himself he lauds without restraint.
The elephant he needs must criticize;
To crop his ears and stretch his tail were wise;
A creature he of huge, misshapen size.
The elephant, though famed as beast judicious,
While on his own account he had no wishes,
Pronounced dame whale too big to suit his taste;
Of flesh and fat she was a perfect waste.
The little ant, again, pronounced the gnat too wee;
To such a speck, a vast colossus she.
Each censured by the rest, himself content,
Back to their homes all living things were sent.
Such folly lives yet with human fools.
For others lynxes, for ourselves but moles.
Great blemishes in other men we spy,
Which in ourselves we pass most kindly by.
As in this world we're but way-farers,
Kind Heaven has made us wallet-bearers.
The pouch behind our own defects must store,
The faults of others lodge in that before.
Notes
One of Aesop's: Phaedrus also gives it, Book 4, 10.
From heaven, one day, did Jupiter proclaim,
"Let all that live before my throne appear,
And there if any one has anything to blame,
In matter, form, or texture of his frame,
He may bring forth his grievance without fear.
Redress shall instantly be given to each.
Come, monkey, now, first let us have your speech.
You see these quadrupeds, your brothers;
Comparing, then, yourself with others,
Are you well satisfied?" "And why not?"
Says Jock. "Haven't I four trotters with the rest?
Is not my visage comely as the best?
But this my brother Bruin, is a blot
On your creation fair;
And sooner than be painted I had be shot,
Were I, great sire, a bear."
The bear approaching, does he make complaint?
Not he;—himself he lauds without restraint.
The elephant he needs must criticize;
To crop his ears and stretch his tail were wise;
A creature he of huge, misshapen size.
The elephant, though famed as beast judicious,
While on his own account he had no wishes,
Pronounced dame whale too big to suit his taste;
Of flesh and fat she was a perfect waste.
The little ant, again, pronounced the gnat too wee;
To such a speck, a vast colossus she.
Each censured by the rest, himself content,
Back to their homes all living things were sent.
Such folly lives yet with human fools.
For others lynxes, for ourselves but moles.
Great blemishes in other men we spy,
Which in ourselves we pass most kindly by.
As in this world we're but way-farers,
Kind Heaven has made us wallet-bearers.
The pouch behind our own defects must store,
The faults of others lodge in that before.
Notes
One of Aesop's: Phaedrus also gives it, Book 4, 10.
Sunday 3 June 2018
The Heifer, the Goat, and the Sheep, In Company With The Lion
By Jean de La Fontaine
The heifer, the goat, and their sister the sheep,
Compacted their earnings in common to keep,
It's said, in time past, with a lion, who swayed
Full lordship over neighbours, of whatever grade.
The goat, as it happened, a stag having snared,
Sent off to the rest, that the beast might be shared.
All gathered; the lion first counts on his claws,
And says, "We'll proceed to divide with our paws
The stag into pieces, as fixed by our laws."
This done, he announces part first as his own;
"It's mine," he says, "truly, as lion alone."
To such a decision there's nothing to be said,
As he who has made it is doubtless the head.
"Well, also, the second to me should belong;
It's mine, be it known, by the right of the strong.
Again, as the bravest, the third must be mine.
To touch but the fourth whoso makes a sign,
I'll choke him to death
In the space of a breath!"
Notes
Phaedrus, 1. 5. From this fable come the French proverbial expression, la part du lion, and its English equivalent, the "lion's share."
The heifer, the goat, and their sister the sheep,
Compacted their earnings in common to keep,
It's said, in time past, with a lion, who swayed
Full lordship over neighbours, of whatever grade.
The goat, as it happened, a stag having snared,
Sent off to the rest, that the beast might be shared.
All gathered; the lion first counts on his claws,
And says, "We'll proceed to divide with our paws
The stag into pieces, as fixed by our laws."
This done, he announces part first as his own;
"It's mine," he says, "truly, as lion alone."
To such a decision there's nothing to be said,
As he who has made it is doubtless the head.
"Well, also, the second to me should belong;
It's mine, be it known, by the right of the strong.
Again, as the bravest, the third must be mine.
To touch but the fourth whoso makes a sign,
I'll choke him to death
In the space of a breath!"
Notes
Phaedrus, 1. 5. From this fable come the French proverbial expression, la part du lion, and its English equivalent, the "lion's share."
Friday 1 June 2018
The Wolf and the Dog
By Jean de La Fontaine
A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin
(So strict the watch of dogs had been)
Hid little but his bones,
Once met a mastiff dog astray.
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray,
No human mortal owns.
Sir Wolf in famished plight,
Would fain have made a ration
On his fat relation;
But then he first must fight;
And well the dog seemed able
To save from wolfish table
His carcass snug and tight.
So, then, in civil conversation
The wolf expressed his admiration
Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray, politely,
"Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly;
Quit but the woods, advised by me.
For all your fellows here, I see,
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt,
Belike to die of haggard want.
With such a pack, of course it follows,
One fights for every bit he swallows.
Come, then, with me, and share
On equal terms our princely fare."
"But what with you
Has one to do?"
Inquires the wolf. "Light work indeed,"
Replies the dog; "you only need
To bark a little now and then,
To chase off duns and beggar men,
To fawn on friends that come or go forth,
Your master please, and so forth;
For which you have to eat
All sorts of well-cooked meat—
Cold pullets, pigeons, savoury messes—
Besides unnumbered fond caresses."
The wolf, by force of appetite,
Accepts the terms outright,
Tears glistening in his eyes.
But faring on, he spies
A galled spot on the mastiff's neck.
"What's that?" he cries. "O, nothing but a speck."
"A speck?" "Ay, ay; It's not enough to pain me;
Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me."
"Chain! chain you! What! run you not, then,
Just where you please, and when?"
"Not always, sir; but what of that?"
"Enough for me, to spoil your fat!
It ought to be a precious price
Which could to servile chains entice;
For me, I'll shun them while I have wit."
So ran Sir Wolf, and runs yet.
Notes
Phaedrus, 3. 7.—The references to the Fables of Phaedrus are to Bohn's edition, which is from the critical edition of Orellius, 1831.
A prowling wolf, whose shaggy skin
(So strict the watch of dogs had been)
Hid little but his bones,
Once met a mastiff dog astray.
A prouder, fatter, sleeker Tray,
No human mortal owns.
Sir Wolf in famished plight,
Would fain have made a ration
On his fat relation;
But then he first must fight;
And well the dog seemed able
To save from wolfish table
His carcass snug and tight.
So, then, in civil conversation
The wolf expressed his admiration
Of Tray's fine case. Said Tray, politely,
"Yourself, good sir, may be as sightly;
Quit but the woods, advised by me.
For all your fellows here, I see,
Are shabby wretches, lean and gaunt,
Belike to die of haggard want.
With such a pack, of course it follows,
One fights for every bit he swallows.
Come, then, with me, and share
On equal terms our princely fare."
"But what with you
Has one to do?"
Inquires the wolf. "Light work indeed,"
Replies the dog; "you only need
To bark a little now and then,
To chase off duns and beggar men,
To fawn on friends that come or go forth,
Your master please, and so forth;
For which you have to eat
All sorts of well-cooked meat—
Cold pullets, pigeons, savoury messes—
Besides unnumbered fond caresses."
The wolf, by force of appetite,
Accepts the terms outright,
Tears glistening in his eyes.
But faring on, he spies
A galled spot on the mastiff's neck.
"What's that?" he cries. "O, nothing but a speck."
"A speck?" "Ay, ay; It's not enough to pain me;
Perhaps the collar's mark by which they chain me."
"Chain! chain you! What! run you not, then,
Just where you please, and when?"
"Not always, sir; but what of that?"
"Enough for me, to spoil your fat!
It ought to be a precious price
Which could to servile chains entice;
For me, I'll shun them while I have wit."
So ran Sir Wolf, and runs yet.
Notes
Phaedrus, 3. 7.—The references to the Fables of Phaedrus are to Bohn's edition, which is from the critical edition of Orellius, 1831.
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