QUOTES AND IMAGES FROM THE NOVELS OF FONTAINE THE TALES AND NOVELS OF J. DE LA FONTAINE A pretty wife? Beware the monks as you would guard your life Above all law is might Avoid attorneys, if you comfort crave Delays are dangerous, in love or war Ev'ry grave's the same Extremes in ev'ry thing will soonest tire In childhood FEAR 's the lesson first we know! In country villages each step is seen In the midst of society, he was absent from it Monks are knaves in Virtue's mask No folly greater than to heighten pain Some ostentation ever is with grief The god of love and wisdom ne'er agree Those who weep most the soonest gain relief Tis past our pow'r to live on love or air Twere wrong with hope our fond desires to feed We scarcely good can find without alloy Who knows too much, oft shows a want of sense LIFE OF JEAN DE LA FONTAINE Jean de La Fontaine was born on the 8th of July, 1621, at Chateau-Thierry, and his family held a respectable position there. His education was neglected, but he had received that genius which makes amends for all. While still young the tedium of society led him into retirement, from which a taste for independence afterwards withdrew him. He had reached the age of twenty-two, when a few sounds from the lyre of Malherbe, heard by accident, awoke in him the muse which slept. He soon became acquainted with the best models: Phoedrus, Virgil, Horace and Terence amongst the Latins; Plutarch, Homer and Plato, amongst the Greeks; Rabelais, Marot and d'Urfe, amongst the French; Tasso, Ariosto and Boccaccio, amongst the Italians. He married, in compliance with the wishes of his family, a beautiful, witty and chaste woman, who drove him to despair. He was sought after and cherished by all distinguished men of letters. But it was two Ladies who kept him from experiencing the pangs of poverty. La Fontaine, if there remain anything of thee, and if it be permitted to thee for a moment to soar above all time; see the names of La Sabliere and of Hervard pass with thine to the ages to come! The life of La Fontaine was, so to speak, only one of continual distraction. In the midst of society, he was absent from it. Regarded almost as an imbecile by the crowd, this clever author, this amiable man, only permitted himself to be seen at intervals and by friends. He had few books and few friends. Amongst a large number of works that he has left, everyone knows his fables and his tales, and the circumstances of his life are written in a hundred places. He died on the 16th of March, 1695. He was buried in the cemetery of Saint-Joseph, by the side of Moliere. THE AUTHOR'S PREFACE TO THE FIRST VOLUME OF THESE TALES