Chapter 4 No.4

Now comes a tale that no one should believe.

In other times, the ancients say,

The winter came, and hunger made thee grieve.

Thou didst in secret see one day

The ant below the ground her treasure store away.

The wealthy ant was drying in the sun

Her corn the dew had wet by night,

Ere storing it again; and one by one

She filled her sacks as it dried aright.

Thou camest then, and tears bedimmed thy sight,

Saying: "'Tis very cold; the bitter bise

Blows me this way and that to-day.

I die of hunger. Of your riches please

Fill me my bag, and I'll repay,

When summer and its melons come this way.

"Lend me a little corn." Go to, go to!

Think you the ant will lend an ear?

You are deceived. Great sacks, but nought for you!

"Be off, and scrape some barrel clear!

You sing of summer: starve, for winter's here!"

'Tis thus the ancient fable sings

To teach us all the prudence ripe

Of farthing-snatchers, glad to knot the string

That tie their purses. May the gripe

Of colic twist the guts of all such tripe!

He angers me, this fable-teller does,

Saying in winter thou dost seek

Flies, grubs, corn-thou dost never eat like us!

-Corn! Couldst thou eat it, with thy beak?

Thou hast thy fountain with its honey'd reek.

To thee what matters winter? Underground

Slumber thy children, sheltered; thou

The sleep that knows no waking sleepest sound.

Thy body, fallen from the bough,

Crumbles; the questing ant has found thee now.

The wicked ant of thy poor withered hide

A banquet makes; in little bits

She cuts thee up, and empties thine inside,

And stores thee where in wealth she sits:

Choice diet when the winter numbs the wits.