The cicada, having sung
All summer long,
Found herself sorely deprived
When the north wind arrived:
Not a single morsel
Of fly or tiny worm.
She went to plead famine
At the house of the Ant her neighbor,
Praying her to lend her
Some grain to survive
Until the new season.
“I will pay you,” she said to her,
“Before August, on my honour as an animal,
Interest and principal.”
The Ant is not a lender:
That is the least of her faults.
“What were you doing in warm weather?”
She said to this borrower.
“Night and day to all that came
I sang, if you please.”
“You sang? I am very glad.
Well! Dance now.”