Fables of La Fontaine — Fables IX and X
A Rat from town, a country Rat Invited in the civilest way;
For dinner there was just to be Ortolans and an entremet.
Upon a Turkey carpet soft The noble feast at last was spread;
I leave you pretty well to guess The merry, pleasant life they led.
Gay the repast, for plenty reigned, Nothing was wanting to the fare;
But hardly had it well begun Ere chance disturbed the friendly pair.
A sudden racket at the door Alarmed them, and they made retreat;
The City Rat was not the last, His comrade followed fast and fleet.
The noise soon over, they returned, As rats on such occasions do;
"Come," said the liberal citizen, "And let us finish our ragout."
"Not a crumb more," the rustic said;
"To-morrow you shall dine with me;
Don't think me jealous of your state, Or all your royal luxury;
"But then I eat so quiet at home, And nothing dangerous is near;
Good-bye, my friend, I have no love For pleasure when it's mixed with fear."
FABLE X.
THE MAN AND HIS IMAGE.
FOR M.
THE DUKE DE LA ROCHEFOUCAULD.
A man who had no rivals in the love He bore himself, thought that he won the bell From all the world, and hated every glass That truths less palatable tried to tell.
Living contented in the error, Of lying mirrors he'd a terror.
Officious Fate, determined on a cure, Raised up, where'er he turned his eyes, Those silent counsellors that ladies prize.
Mirrors old and mirrors newer;
Mirrors in inns and mirrors in shops;
Mirrors in pockets of all the fops;
Mirrors in every lady's zone.
What could our poor Narcissus do?
He goes and hides him all alone In woods that one can scarce get through.
No more the lying mirrors come, But past his new-found savage home A pure and limpid brook runs fair.
-- He looks.
His ancient foe is there!
His angry eyes stare at the stream, He tries to fancy it a dream.
Resolves to fly the odious place, and shun The image; yet, so fair the brook, he cannot run.
My meaning is not hard to see;
No one is from this failing free.
The man who loved himself is just the Soul, The mirrors are the follies of all others.
(Mirrors are faithful painters on the whole;)
And you know well as I do, brothers, that the brook Is the wise "Maxim-book."
[1] [1] Rochefoucauld's Maxims are the most extraordinary dissections of human selfishness ever made.
