- Death and the Dying
- The Cobbler and the Financier
- The Lion, the Wolf, and the Fox
- The Power Of Fables
- The Man and the Flea
- The Women and the Secret
- The Dog That Carried His Master’s Dinner
- The Joker and the Fishes
- The Rat and the Oyster
- The Bear and the Amateur Gardener
- The Two Friends
- The Hog, the Goat, and the Sheep
- Thyrsis And Amaranth
- The Funeral of the Lioness
- The Rat and the Elephant
- The Horoscope
- The Ass and the Dog
- The Pashaw and the Merchant
- The Use Of Knowledge
- Jupiter and the Thunderbolts
- The Falcon and the Capon
- The Cat and the Rat
- The Torrent and the River
- The Two Dogs and the Dead Ass
- Democritus and the People Of Abdera
- The Wolf and the Hunter
You often hear a sweet seductive call:
If wise, you haste towards it not at all;—
And, if you heed my apologue,
You act like John de Nivelle’s dog.
A capon, citizen of Mans,
Was summoned from a throng
To answer to the village squire,
Before tribunal called the fire.
The matter to disguise
The kitchen sheriff wise
But not a moment did he—
This Norman and a half—
The smooth official trust.
“Your bait,” said he, “is dust,
And I’m too old for chaff.”
Meantime, a falcon, on his perch,
Observed the flight and search.
In man, by instinct or experience,
The capons have so little confidence,
That this was not without much trouble caught,
Though for a splendid supper sought.
To lie, the morrow night,
In brilliant candle-light,
Supinely on a dish
“Midst viands, fowl, and fish,
With all the ease that heart could wish—
This honour, from his master kind,
The fowl would gladly have declined.
Outcried the bird of chase,
As in the weeds he eyed the skulker’s face,
“Why, what a stupid, blockhead race!—
Such witless, brainless fools
Might well defy the schools.
For me, I understand
To chase at word
The swiftest bird,
Aloft, over sea or land;
At slightest beck,
To perch on my master’s hand.
There, at his window he appears—
He waits you—hasten—have no ears?”
“Ah! that I have,” the fowl replied;
“But what from master might betide?
Or cook, with cleaver at his side?
Return you may for such a call,
But let me fly their fatal hall;
And spare your mirth at my expense:
Whatever I lack, it’s not the sense
To know that all this sweet-toned breath
Is spent to lure me to my death.
If you had seen on the spit
As many of the falcons roast
As I have of the capon host,
You would, not thus reproach my wit.”
The Falcon and the Capon by Jean de La Fontaine’s Fables in Book 8
0 views today | 27 total views | 277 words | 1.46 pages | read in 2 mins
Disclaimer: All the stories, poems and images used on this website, unless otherwise noted are assumed to be in the public domain. If you feel your image or story or poem should not be here, please email us to [email protected] and it will be promptly removed.
Note: We do not use any of our content for commercial purpose.