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An old fox, broken down, gouty, apoplectic,
but learned, eloquent, articulate,
and knowing his logic very well,
set himself to preach in the wilderness.
His style was flowery, his morality excellent.
He proved in three points that simplicity,
good morals, honesty,
give at little cost that felicity
which an impostor world presents to us
and makes us pay dearly for without ever giving it.
Our preacher had no success;
no one came, except five or six marmots,
or else a few devout does
who lived far from noise, without attendants, without favor,
and could not bring the orator into credit.
He took the good course of changing his subject,
preached against bears, tigers, lions,
against their gluttonous appetites,
their thirst, their bloodthirsty rage.
Then everyone rushed to his sermons:
stags, gazelles, roebucks, found a thousand charms
in them;
the audience always went out bathed in tears;
and the fox’s name soon became famous.
A loin, king of the region,
a good man otherwise, and a very pious old man,
was curious to hear him.
The fox was delighted to make his entrance
at court: he arrives, he preaches, and, this time,
surpassing himself, he thunders, he terrifies
the fierce tyrants of the woods,
paints frail innocence trembling at their aspect,
imploring each day the too-slow justice
of the master and judge of kings.
The courtiers, surprised by so much boldness,
looked at one another without saying anything;
for the king found it good.
Novelty sometimes makes roughness loved.
On leaving the sermon, the enchanted monarch
summoned the fox: you have known how to please me,
he said to him, you have shown me the truth;
I owe you a just reward:
what do you ask for the price of your lessons?
The fox replied: sire, a few turkeys.
Florian
Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.
Text published on Poésies 123: https://www.poesies123.com/en/fable-the-fox-who-preached-jean-pierre-claris-de-florian/