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.