No fox so clever in our neighbour's woods But must leave me enough, as well I know, To buy a pig, 'twill fatten very soon; I buy him large, and for a good round sum I sell him, mark you that some afternoon; A cow and calf into our stable come; Who'll prevent that? that's what I mean to say. I see the calf skipping among the herd." Then Perette skipped for joy. Alack-a-day! Down came the milk, I give you my sworn word: Adieu cow, calf, pig, chicken, all the rest. She left with tearful eye her fortune lost, And ran to tell her husband, dreading lest He'd beat her, when in anger tempest tossed. The neighbours, doubling up with laughter, Called her the Milk-pail ever after. Who has not raised his tower in Spain, And in a cloud-land longed to reign? Picrocolles, Pyrrhus have so done, Sages or fools, just like this one. All dream by turns; the dream is sweet; The world lies prostrate at our feet: Our souls yield blindly to the vision, Ours beauty, honour, fields Elysian. 'Tis I alone the bravest smite, The dethroned Sophy owns my might; They choose me king, in crowds I'm led; Gold crowns come raining on my head. A fly soon wakes me up once more, And I am Big John, as before. FABLE CXXXIV. THE CURATE AND THE CORPSE. A Dead man, on his mournful way. To his last lodging went one day. A Curé, bustling gaily, came In due form, to inter the same. Deceased was in a coach, with care Packed snugly from the sun and air; Clad in a robe, alas! ye proud, Summer or winter, called a shroud; To change it no one is allowed. The pastor sat the dead beside, Reciting, without grief or pride, Lessons, responses, and those done, The funeral psalms; yes, every one. Good Mr. Dead-man, let them chant, The salary is all they want. The Curé Chouart shut the eyes Of his dead man, lest he surprise The priest who snatched from him a prize. His looks they seemed to say, "My friend, From you I'll have, before I end, This much in silver, that in wax," And many another little tax; That soon would bring our good divine A small cask of the choicest wine; His pretty niece a new silk gown, And Paquette something from the town. Just as his pleasant thoughts took flight, There came a crash... Curé, good night! The leaden coffin strikes his head. Parishioner, lapped up in lead, Politely you went first, you see, Now comes the priest for company. Such is our life, as in this tale: See Curé Chouart counting on his fee, Like the poor girl with the milk-pail. FABLE CXXXV. THE MAN WHO RUNS AFTER FORTUNE, AND THE MAN WHO WAITS FOR HER.