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!"

Thus certain people, playing the zealous worker,
Insert themselves into others' business:
They claim everywhere to be necessary,
And, being everywhere intrusive, should be chased away.