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.