Wise counsel is not always wise, As this my tale exemplifies. A boy, that frolicked on the banks of Seine, Fell in, and would have found a watery grave, Had not that hand that plants never in vain A willow planted there, his life to save.
Old Mister Fox was at expense, one day, To dine old Mistress Stork. The fare was light, was nothing, sooth to say, Requiring knife and fork. That sly old gentleman, the dinner-giver, Was, you must understand, a frugal liver.
A man of middle age, whose hair Was bordering on the grey, Began to turn his thoughts and care The matrimonial way. By virtue of his ready, A store of choices had he
A poor unfortunate, from day to day, Called Death to take him from this world away. "O Deathe he said, "to me how fair your form! Come quick, and end for me life's cruel storm."
Three sorts there are, as Malherbe says, Which one can never overpraise— The gods, the ladies, and the king; And I, for one, endorse the thing. The heart, praise tickles and entices; Of fair one's smile, it often the price is.
An envoy of the Porte Sublime, As history says, once on a time, Before the imperial German court Did rather boastfully report, The troops commanded by his master's firman,
That innocence is not a shield, A story teaches, not the longest. The strongest reasons always yield To reasons of the strongest.
A city rat, one night, Did, with a civil stoop, A country rat invite To end a turtle soup. On a turkey carpet They found the table spread,