With the yield of a flock, on which he lived without worries,
A neighbor of Amphitrite was long content.
If his fortune was small,
It was at the very least certain.
At last the treasures unloaded on the beach
So tempted him that he sold his flock,
Traded in silver, sent it all out over the water;
This silver was lost in a shipwreck.
Its owner was reduced to tending ewes,
No longer the chief shepherd, as he had once been
When his own sheep grazed on the shore;
He who had seen himself as Corydon or Thyrsis
Found himself Pierrot, and nothing more.
After some time he made some profit,
Bought new wool-bearing animals;
And as one day the winds, holding their breath,
Were allowing vessels to land peacefully;
"You want silver, O waters, Miladies?"
He said, "Address yourselves, I beg of you, to someone else:
Upon my word you won't have ours."

This is not a story invented on a whim.
I make use of the truth 
To show, from experience,
That a penny, when it is certain, 
Is worth more than five hoped for;
That one must be content with one's circumstances;
That to the urgings of the sea and of ambition 
We should close our ears.
For each one that they benefit, ten thousand will suffer.
The sea promises mounts and marvels;
You may be sure that thieves and tempests will come.

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."

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.

[ ... ]

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."

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."