A frog once saw an ox
Who seemed to her of a fine size.
She, who was in all not as big as an egg,
Envious, stretched, and puffed up, and exerted herself,
So as to equal the animal in size,
Saying, "Look closely, my sister;
Is it enough? Tell me, am I not there yet?"
"No " — "Now, then? — "Not at all." — "And now?"
"You're not even close." The little ninny
Became so puffed up that she burst.
The world is full of folk who are no wiser:
Every burgher wants to build like a great lord,
Every princeling has ambassadors,
Every marquis wants to have pages.

The argument of the strongest is always the best:
        We will demonstrate this right away.

        A lamb was quenching its thirst
        In the current of a pure stream.
A wolf arrived with an empty stomach, seeking adventure,
    And drawn to that area by hunger.
"What makes you so bold as to foul my drink?"
        Said that animal, full of rage:
"You will be punished for your effrontery."
"Sire," replied the lamb, "let Your Majesty 
        Not be moved to anger,
        But rather let him consider 
        That I came to quench my thirst 
                In the current
        More than twenty paces downstream;
And that as a result there is no way
         That I could foul his drink.
"You are fouling it!" replied that cruel beast,
"And I know that you spoke ill of me last year."
"How could I have done that, if I wasn't yet born?"
    Replied the lamb: "I'm still suckling my mother."
        "If it wasn't you, then it was your brother."
    "I have none." "Then it was someone of yours;
        For you hardly leave me alone,
        You, your shepherds and your dogs.
    I've been told: I must have my revenge."
        Thereupon, deep into the forest
        The wolf took the lamb, and then ate it,
        Without any further disputation.

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.

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 August, 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."

A cobbler sang from morning till night:
It was marvelous to see him,
Marvelous to hear him; he improvised scales and arpeggios,
Happier than any of the Seven Sages.
His neighbor, on the other hand, [rolling]1 in money,
[Sang]2 little, [slept]3 even less.
He was a man of finance.
If sometimes he would doze off at daybreak,
The cobbler would then wake him by singing,
And the financier would complain
That the care of Providence 
Had not put sleep up for sale at the market 
Like food and drink.
To his residence he summoned 
The singer, and said to him: "Now then, Mister Gregory,
What do you earn in a year?" "In a year! My word, sir,"
In a tone of laughter 
The hearty cobbler said, "It's not my way 
To count like that; and I hardly save up
From one day to the next: it's enough that all in all
I manage to make ends meet:
Each day brings its bread."
"Well then, tell me, what do you earn in a day?"
"Sometimes more, sometimes less, the trouble is always—
(And without this our earnings would be decent enough)—
The trouble is that the year is so larded with days
When one cannot work; we are ruined by feast days.
Each one treads on the next; and the parish priest
Is always stuffing some new saint into his sermon."
The financier, laughing at his innocence,
Said to him: "I want to put you on the throne today.
Take these hundred crowns: look after them carefully,
To make use of them when you have need."
The cobbler thought he was looking at all the money that the earth
Had, over more than a hundred years,
Produced for people to use.
He returned home; in his cellar he shut away 
The money and his joy at the same time.
No more singing; he lost his voice 
From the moment he gained that source of sorrows.
Sleep departed his lodgings;
For guests he now had worries,
Suspicions, and vain alarms.
All day long he was on the lookout; and at night,
If some cat made a noise,
The cat was taking the money: in the end the poor man
Rushed off to the one he was no longer waking;
"Return to me," he said, "my songs and my sleep,
And take back your hundred crowns."

A bat flew headlong
Into a weasel's den, and as soon as she was there 
The other, long inflamed against mice,
Rushed forward to devour her.
"What? You dare," she said, "present yourself to my eyes,
After your kind has tried to do me harm?"
"Aren't you a mouse? Don't lie to me.
Yes, you are, or I'm not a weasel."
"Pardon me," said the poor little thing,
"That's not my occupation.
I, a mouse! Scoundrels have been telling you stories.
Thanks to the Author of the Universe,
I am a bird; see my wings:
Long live the race that cleaves the air!"
Her reasoning was attractive, and seemed good.
It worked so well that she was given
Liberty to withdraw.
Two days later, our scatterbrain 
Blindly managed to land herself
In the home of another weasel, enemy to birds.
Once more she found herself in danger of her life.
The lady of the house with her long muzzle 
Was going to chew her up as being a bird, 
When she protested that it was an insult:
"I, to be taken for such a thing! You aren't looking.
What makes a bird? It's the plumage.
I am a mouse: long live rats!
Jupiter confound all cats!"
By such adroit repartee
She saved her own life twice.

There have been some who, by a change of colors,
Have often, like her, laughed in the face of danger.
People say that the wise man says,
"Long live the King, long live the League."