The learned men had set aside, In judging thus the testament, The very gist of its intent. 'The dead,' quoth he, 'could he but know of it, Would heap reproaches on such Attic wit. What! men who proudly take their place As sages of the human race, Lack they the simple skill To settle such a will?' This said, he undertook himself The task of portioning the pelf; And straightway gave each maid the part The least according to her heart-- The prim coquette, the drinking stuff, The drinker, then, the farms and cattle; And on the miser, rude and rough, The robes and lace did Aesop settle; For thus, he said, 'an early date Would see the sisters alienate Their several shares of the estate. No motive now in maidenhood to tarry, They all would seek, post haste, to marry; And, having each a splendid bait, Each soon would find a well-bred mate; And, leaving thus their father's goods intact, Would to their mother pay them all, in fact,'-- Which of the testament Was plainly the intent. The people, who had thought a slave an ass, Much wonder'd how it came to pass That one alone should have more sense Than all their men of most pretence. [29] Phaedrus, IV. 5. [30] _Areopagus._--This was the Athenian Court of Justice at Mars Hill. It is said to have been called _Areiopagos_ (the Hill of Mars) because, according to tradition, the first trial there was that of Mars for the murder of Halirrhotius. * * * * * BOOK III. I.--THE MILLER, HIS SON, AND THE ASS [1] To M. De Maucroix.[2] Because the arts are plainly birthright matters, For fables we to ancient Greece are debtors; But still this field could not be reap'd so clean As not to let us, later comers, glean. The fiction-world hath deserts yet to dare, And, daily, authors make discoveries there. I'd fain repeat one which our man of song, Old Malherbe, told one day to young Racan.[3] Of Horace they the rivals and the heirs, Apollo's pets,--my masters, I should say,-- Sole by themselves were met, I'm told, one day, Confiding each to each their thoughts and cares. Racan begins:--'Pray end my inward strife, For well you know, my friend, what's what in life, Who through its varied course, from stage to stage, Have stored the full experience of age; What shall I do? 'Tis time I chose profession. You know my fortune, birth, and disposition. Ought I to make the country my resort, Or seek the army, or to rise at court? There's nought but mixeth bitterness with charms; War hath its pleasures; hymen, its alarms. 'Twere nothing hard to take my natural bent,-- But I've a world of people to content.' 'Content a world!' old Malherbe cries; 'who can, sir? Why, let me tell a story ere I answer.'