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Tales and Novels of J. de La Fontaine — Volume 17 by La Fontaine, Jean de, 1621-1695
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A word from our supporters: File extension GI | This eBook was produced by David Widger [NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the file for those who may wish to sample the author's ideas before making an entire meal of them. D.W.] OF J. DE LA FONTAINE The Progress of Wit The Sick Abbess The Truckers THE PROGRESS OF WITWhich oft resumes its fascinating sway; Delights the sex, or ugly, fair, or sour; By night or day:--'tis sweet at any hour. The frolick, ev'ry where is known to fame; Conjecture if you can, and tells its name. 'Tis with the lover it excels alone; No lookers-on, as umpires, are required; No quarrels rise, though each appears inspired; All seem delighted with the pleasing game:-- Conjecture if you can, and tell its name. No longer trifling with it I shall stay, But now disclose a method to transmit (As oft we find) to ninnies sense and wit. Till Alice got instruction in this school, She was regarded as a silly fool, Her exercise appeared to spin and sew:-- Not hers indeed, the hands alone would go; For sense or wit had in it no concern; Whate'er the foolish girl had got to learn, No part therein could ever take the mind; Her doll, for thought, was just as well designed. The mother would, a hundred times a day, Abuse the stupid maid, and to her say Go wretched lump and try some wit to gain. Her neighbours asked to point her out the spot, Where useful wit by purchase might be got. The simple question laughter raised around; At length they told her, that it might be found With father Bonadventure, who'd a stock, Which he at times disposed of to his flock. To see the friar she was quite intent, Though trembling lest she might disturb his ease; And one of his high character displease. The girl exclaimed, as on she moved,--Will he Such presents willingly bestow on me, Whose age, as yet, has scarcely reached fifteen? With such can I be worthy to be seen? Her innocence much added to her charms, The gentle wily god of soft alarms Had not a youthful maiden in his book, That carried more temptation in her look. That in this convent wit is often sold, Will you allow me some on trust to take? My treasure won't afford that much I stake; I can return if more I should require; Howe'er, you'll take this pledge I much desire; On which she tried to give the monk a ring, That to her finger firmly seemed to cling. He cried, good maid, the pledge we will decline, And what is wished, provide for you the same; 'Tis merchandize, and whatsoe'er its fame, To some 'tis freely giv'n:--to others taught If not too dear, oft better when 'tis bought. Come in and boldly follow where I lead; None round can see: you've nothing here to heed; They're all at prayers; the porter's at my will; The very walls, of prudence have their fill. |