[15] This fable is founded upon a fact, which is related by Madame de Sévigné in her _Letters_ under date Feb. 26, 1672, as follows:--"M. Boufflers has killed a man since his death: the circumstance was this: they were carrying him about a league from Boufflers to inter him; the corpse was on a bier in a coach; his own curate attended it; the coach overset, and the bier falling upon the curate's neck choaked him." M. de Boufflers had fallen down dead a few days before. He was the eldest brother of the Duke de Boufflers. In another _Letter_, March 3, 1672, Madame de Sévigné says:--"Here is Fontaine's fable too, on the adventure of M. de Boufflers' curate, who was killed in the coach by his dead patron. There was something very extraordinary in the affair itself: the fable is pretty; but not to be compared to the one that follows it: I do not understand the Milk-pot." [16] This allusion to the preceding fable must be the "milk-pot" which Madame de Sévigné did "not understand" (_vide_ last note); Madame can hardly have meant the "milk-pot" fable, which is easily understood. She often saw La Fontaine's work before it was published, and the date of her letter quoted at p. 161 shows that she must so have seen the "Curate and the Corpse," and that, perhaps, without so seeing the "Dairywoman and the Pot of Milk." XII.--THE MAN WHO RAN AFTER FORTUNE, AND THE MAN WHO WAITED FOR HER IN HIS BED. Who joins not with his restless race To give Dame Fortune eager chase? O, had I but some lofty perch, From which to view the panting crowd Of care-worn dreamers, poor and proud, As on they hurry in the search, From realm to realm, o'er land and water, Of Fate's fantastic, fickle daughter! Ah! slaves sincere of flying phantom! Just as their goddess they would clasp, The jilt divine eludes their grasp, And flits away to Bantam! Poor fellows! I bewail their lot. And here's the comfort of my ditty; For fools the mark of wrath are not So much, I'm sure, as pity. 'That man,' say they, and feed their hope, 'Raised cabbages--and now he's pope. Don't we deserve as rich a prize?' Ay, richer? But, hath Fortune eyes? And then the popedom, is it worth The price that must be given?-- Repose?--the sweetest bliss of earth, And, ages since, of gods in heaven? 'Tis rarely Fortune's favourites Enjoy this cream of all delights. Seek not the dame, and she will you-- A truth which of her sex is true.