Perrette with a jug of milk on her head
Well balanced on a little cushion,
Expected to reach town without a hitch.
She strode along lightly in short clothing,
Having worn that day, to be more nimble,
A simple petticoat and flat shoes.
Our milkmaid thus kitted out
Was already counting in her head
The price her milk would fetch, and using that money
Bought a hundred eggs, yielding three broods;
The thing turned out well by her diligent care.
"It is easy for me," she said,
"To raise chickens around my house:
The fox will be quite skilled 
If he doesn't leave me enough to have a pig.
The pig will cost but little bran to fatten;
When I got him he was already reasonably large;
If I sell him I will earn quite a tidy sum.
And who will prevent me from putting in our stable,
Given the price it fetches, a cow and her calf,
That I will see leaping in the midst of the herd?"
Perrette, carried away, thereupon leapt also.
The milk fell; farewell calf, cow, pig, brood;
The mistress of these goods, leaving with a teary eye
Her fortune thus scattered about, 
Went to apologize to her husband,
In great danger of being beaten.
A farcical tale was made of this;
It was called The Jug of Milk.

[ ... ]

The cicada, having sung
All summer long,
Found herself entirely destitute 
When the north wind came:
Not a single tiny morsel
Of fly or of worm.
She went to cry famine
At the ant's house next door,
Imploring her to lend her
Some speck to tide her over
Until the next spring.
"I'll pay you," she said,
"Before the harvest, animal's honor,
Interest and principal."
The ant was not one to lend,
That was the least of her faults.
"What did you do in the warm weather?"
Said she to that borrower.
"Night and day to all and sundry
I sang, if you don't mind."
"You sang? I'm so delighted.
Well then! Now you can dance."

Master Raven, perched in a tree,
Held a cheese in his beak.
Master Fox, drawn by the aroma,
Spoke to him more or less these words:
"Hey, good day, Mister Raven,
How attractive you are! How handsome you seem to me!
To speak truly, if your song
Is a match for your plumage, 
You are the phoenix of the hosts of this wood."
At these words the raven was beside himself with joy;
And, to show off his beautiful voice,
He opened his beak wide, dropping his prey.
The fox seized it, and said, "My good sir,
Learn that every flatterer
Lives at the expense of those who listen to him:
This lesson is doubtless well worth a cheese."
The raven, ashamed and embarrassed,
Swore, but a little late, that he wouldn't be taken in again.

On an uphill path, sandy, arduous,
Exposed to the sun on all sides,
        Six strong horses were pulling a coach.
Women, monk, old men, everything had been unloaded;
The team was sweating, panting, exhausted.
A fly arrives and approaches the horses,
Thinking to motivate them with her buzzing,           
Biting one, biting another, and thinking at each moment 
        That she is making the machine go, 
She sits on the beam, on the coachman's nose.
        As soon as the cart makes progress,
          And she sees the people moving,
She claims the credit for herself only,
Back and forth she goes, a zealous worker: she looks like 
A field commander going to each location 
To impel his men forward and hasten victory.
       The fly, amid this shared need,
Complains that she is acting alone, and that all the responsibility is hers;
That no one is helping the horses extricate themselves from their difficulty.
        The monk was praying his breviary;
He was certainly taking his time! A woman was singing:
Then it was a question of so many songs!
Lady Fly goes to sing in their ears,
        And performs a hundred such follies.
After much effort, the coach arrives at the top:
"Now let's take a breather!" says the fly right away:
"I've done so much that our people are finally on the plain.
Now, Sir Horses, pay me for my pains!"

[ ... ]

A certain Gascon fox - Norman, others say -
Nearly dying of hunger, saw atop a trellis
        A bunch of grapes, apparently ripe,
        And covered in a bright red skin.
The gallant would happily have made a meal of them,
        But since he couldn't reach them,
"They are too green," he said, "and fit for boors."

        Wasn't that better than whining?

Once the city rat
Invited the country rat,
In a very polite way,
To eat leftover ortolan.

On a Turkish rug
The table was laid.
I leave to the imagination the life
That these two friends led.

The banquet was quite respectable,
The feast lacked nothing;
But someone disturbed the party
While they were in the midst of it.

At the door of the room 
They heard a noise:
The city rat ran off;
His comrade followed suit.

The noise stopped; its source withdrew;
The rats at once returned to business,
And the city-dweller said,
"Let us finish our roast."

"That's enough," said the rustic,
"Tomorrow you will come dine with me:
It's not that I pride myself
On kingly feasts such as yours;

"But nothing comes to interrupt me:
I eat entirely at my leisure.
So farewell; fie upon the pleasure 
That can be spoiled by fear."