The Horse and the Colt

Fable by Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian Period 18th century

A good father horse, widowed, and having only one son,
raised him in a pasture
where the waters, the flowers and the shade
offered at once all goods combined.
Abusing them to enjoy, as one does at that age,
the colt every day gorged himself on sainfoin,
rolled in the flowery grass,
galloped aimlessly, bathed without desire,
or rested without need.
Idle and fat as lard, the young solitary
grew bored, wearied of wanting nothing;
disgust soon came; he goes to find his father:
for a long time now, he says, I have not felt well;
this grass is unhealthy and is killing me,
this clover is tasteless, this water is corrupted,
the air one breathes here attacks my lungs;
in short, I die if we do not leave.
My son, replies the father, it is your life at stake,
this very instant we must leave.
No sooner said than done, they quit their homeland.
The young traveler bounded with pleasure:
the old man, less joyful, went at a wiser pace;
but he guided the child, and made him climb
over steep mountains, arid, without grass,
where nothing could nourish him.
Evening came, no pasture;
they did without. The next day,
as they began to suffer from hunger,
they took with the tips of their teeth a wild bramble.
They galloped no more for the rest of the journey;
hardly, after two days, did they even go at a walk.
Judging then the lesson learned,
the father takes again a secret route
that his son did not know,
and leads him back to his meadow
in the middle of the night. As soon as our colt
finds a little flowery grass,
he throws himself upon it: ah! The excellent feast!
The good grass! He says: how sweet and
tender it is!
My father, one must not expect
that we could find better;
let us settle forever in these lovely places:
what country can be worth this pastoral asylum?
As he spoke thus, day came to appear:
the colt recognizes the meadow he had left;
he remains confused. The father, with kindness,
tells him: my dear child, remember this maxim:
whoever enjoys too much is soon disgusted,
happiness needs moderation.

Florian

Translation generated by Poésies 123 with assistance from the deepseek-chat artificial-intelligence model.

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