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.

It does no good to run; one must set out in good time.
The hare and the tortoise are evidence of this.
"Let us wager," said the latter, "that you won't reach
That goal as soon as I." "As soon? are you thinking clearly?"
        Replied the nimble animal.
        "My chatterbox, you must purge yourself 
        With four grains of hellebore."
        "Thinking clearly or not, I still bet."
        So it was done: and each one's
        Stake was placed near the goal:
        To know what, is not the point,
        Nor upon which judge they settled.
Our hare had only to take four paces;
I mean, such as he takes when, about to be caught,
He pulls away from the dogs, sends them off to the kalends,
        And sets them to exploring the moors.
Having, I say, time left over for grazing,
        For sleeping, and for listening
    For the direction of the wind, he leaves the tortoise 
        To keep up her Senatorial pace.
        She sets off, she tries her hardest;
        She makes haste slowly.
He however scorns such a victory,
        Finds little glory in the wager,
        Believes that it adds to his honor
    To set out late. He grazes, he relaxes,
        He distracts himself with everything else
    Besides the wager. At the end when he saw
That the other was almost reaching the end of the course,
He was off like a shot; but the bounds that he took 
Were in vain: the tortoise got there first.
Well! She cried to him, wasn't I right?
        What good is your speed to you?
        Me, the winner! And how would it be 
        If you had to carry a house?

Greed loses everything in its desire to gain everything.
As witness to this I have need only
Of him whose hen, as the fable relates,
Laid every day a golden egg.
He thought she had a treasure inside her body.
He killed her, opened her up, and found her no different
From those whose eggs yielded him nothing,
Having deprived himself of the most valuable of his goods.
A fine lesson for miserly folk:
In recent times, how many have we seen
Who have become poor overnight
Through wanting to get rich too fast?

The nation of weasels,
No more than that of cats, 
Is not kindly disposed towards rats;
And without the narrow doors
Of their dwellings,
The long-backed animal
Would wreak therein, I fancy,
Enormous destruction.
Well, in a certain year
When there were plenty of them,
Their king, whose name was Ratapon, 
Fielded an army of rats.
The weasels, for their part,
Raised their standard.
If one believes the reports,
Victory hung in the balance:
More than one fallow field grew fat
On the blood of more than one band.
But the greatest loss
Fell almost everywhere 
On the rodential tribe.
Their rout was total.
Despite the exertions of Artarpax,
Psicharpax, Meridarpax,
Who, all covered in dirt,
Supported for quite a while 
The efforts of the combatants.
Their resistance was in vain:
They had to yield to fate:
All of them fled as fast as they could,
Soldier as well as captain.
The princes all perished.
The rabble, in holes
Finding ready retreat,
Saved themselves without great trouble.
But their masters, on their heads
Bearing each a plume,
Horns or tassels,
Either as badges of honor
Or so that the weasels 
Might conceive more fear of them —
This caused their misfortune.
No hole, no cleft, no crevice 
Was wide enough for them,
Where the rabble 
Fit into the smallest cavities.
Most of those left strewn about
Were thus the foremost of the rats.

A head adorned with plumes
Is not a minor hindrance.
The most splendid accoutrements 
Can often in a narrow way
Lead to delay.
The small, in every situation, 
Quite easily escape;
The great can't manage it.