The Hen With The Golden Eggs.

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How avarice loseth all,
By striving all to gain,
I need no witness call
But him whose thrifty hen,
As by the fable we are told,
Laid every day an egg of gold.
'She hath a treasure in her body,'
Bethinks the avaricious noddy.
He kills and opens - vexed to find
All things like hens of common kind.
Thus spoil'd the source of all his riches,
To misers he a lesson teaches.
In these last changes of the moon,
How often doth one see
Men made as poor as he
By force of getting rich too soon!

Jean de La Fontaine

Jean de La Fontaine was a renowned French fabulist and poet. Born on July 8, 1621, he is best known for his 'Fables,' which have been admired for their witty and insightful depiction of human nature and society. La Fontaine's fables are considered classics of French literature and have had a long-lasting impact on both the literary world and popular culture. He passed away on April 13, 1695.

Jean de La Fontaine

The Rabbits.

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

The Lion In Love.

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

The Woodman And Mercury.

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

The Mice And The Screech-Owl (Prose Fable)

Jean de La Fontaine, Simple Poetry

English

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The Hen With The Golden Eggs.

To this lesson in greed,
Pray, little ones, heed:

Each day, we are told,
A most wonderful Hen
Laid an egg made of gold
For this meanest of men.

So greedy was he,
He was not satisfied.
"What is one egg to me?
I want all that' inside!"

He cut off her head,
And began to explore.
But the poor hen was dead.
And could lay eggs no more.

Jean de La Fontaine

The Golden Eggs

A golden Egg, one every day,
That simpleton's Goose used to lay;
So he killed the poor thing,
Swifter fortune to bring,
And dined off his fortune that day.

Greed Overeaches Itself

Walter Crane

The Miser Who Had Lost His Treasure.

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'Tis use that constitutes possession.
I ask that sort of men, whose passion
It is to get and never spend,
Of all their toil what is the end?
What they enjoy of all their labours
Which do not equally their neighbours?
Throughout this upper mortal strife,
The miser leads a beggar's life.
Old Aesop's man of hidden treasure
May serve the case to demonstrate.
He had a great estate,
But chose a second life to wait
Ere he began to taste his pleasure.
This man, whom gold so little bless'd,
Was not possessor, but possess'd.
His cash he buried under ground,
Where only might his heart be found;
It being, then, his sole delight
To ponder of it day and night,
And consecrate his rusty pelf,
A sacred offering, to himself.
In...

Jean de La Fontaine

Golden Egg.

        In ancient times we have been told
        A goose did lay an egg of gold,
        She did produce one every day,
        So regular this goose did lay.

        But her stupid foolish master
        Wanted her to lay them faster,
        And he at last the goose did kill,
        Gold grist no more came to his mill.

        But a strange tale we now unfold,
        In California's mines of gold,
        There they keep both hens and chickens,
        'Mong the gravel scratching pickings.

        But hens do find the golden shiner,
        Is too heavy for their dinner,
        For it they cannot well digest,
        As it lies solid in their breast.

        Then they are slain and you behold
        In their craw the shinin...

James McIntyre

The Unusual Goose And The Imbecilic Woodcutter

A woodcutter bought him a gander,
Or at least that was what he supposed,
As a matter of fact, 'twas a slander
As a later occurrence disclosed;
For they locked the bird up in the garret
To fatten, the while it grew old,
And it laid there a twenty-two carat
Fine egg of the purest of gold!

There was much unaffected rejoicing
In the home of the woodcutter then,
And his wife, her exuberance voicing,
Proclaimed him most lucky of men.
"'Tis an omen of fortune, this gold egg,"
She said, "and of practical use,
For this fowl doesn't lay any old egg,
She's a highly superior goose."

Twas this creature's habitual custom,
This laying of superfine eggs,
And they made it their practice to dust 'em
And pack them by dozens in kegs:
But the woodcu...

Guy Wetmore Carryl

The Burier And His Comrade.

A close-fist had his money hoarded
Beyond the room his till afforded.
His avarice aye growing ranker,
(Whereby his mind of course grew blanker,)
He was perplex'd to choose a banker;
For banker he must have, he thought,
Or all his heap would come to nought.
'I fear,' said he, 'if kept at home,
And other robbers should not come,
It might be equal cause of grief
That I had proved myself the thief.'
The thief! Is to enjoy one's pelf
To rob or steal it from one's self?
My friend, could but my pity reach you,
This lesson I would gladly teach you,
That wealth is weal no longer than
Diffuse and part with it you can:
Without that power, it is a woe.
Would you for age keep back its flow?
Age buried 'neath its joyless snow?
With pains of getting, care...

Jean de La Fontaine