Le Rat qui s’est retiré du monde Bilingue Français/Anglais

Le Rat qui s’est retiré du monde

Les Levantins en leur légende
Disent qu’un certain rat, las des soins d’ici-bas,
Dans un fromage de Hollande
Se retira loin du tracas.
La solitude étoit profonde,
S’étendant partout à la ronde.
Notre ermite nouveau subsistait là dedans.
Il fit tant, de pieds et de dents,
Qu’en peu de jours il eut au fond de l’ermitage
Le vivre et le couvert: que faut-il davantage?
Il devint gros et gras: Dieu prodigue ses biens
A ceux qui font vœu d’être siens.
Un jour, au dévot personnage
Des députés du peuple rat
S’en vinrent demander quelque aumône légère:
Ils allaient en terre étrangère
Chercher quelque secours contre le peuple chat;
Ratopolis étoit bloquée:
On les avoit contraints de partir sans argent,
Attendu l’état indigent
De la république attaquée.
Ils demandaient fort peu, certains que le secours
Seroit prêt dans quatre ou cinq jours.
Mes amis, dit le solitaire,
Les choses d’ici-bas ne me regardent plus:
En quoi peut un pauvre reclus
Vous assister? que peut-il faire
Que de prier le Ciel qu’il vous aide en ceci?
J’espère qu’il aura de vous quelque souci.
Ayant parlé de cette sorte,
Le nouveau saint ferma sa porte.

Qui désigné-je, à votre avis,
Par ce rat si peu secourable?
Un moine? Non, mais un dervis:
Je suppose qu’un moine est toujours charitable.

The Rat Retired From The World

The sage Levantines have a tale
About a rat that weary grew
Of all the cares which life assail,
And to a Holland cheese withdrew.
His solitude was there profound,
Extending through his world so round.
Our hermit lived on that within;
And soon his industry had been
With claws and teeth so good,
That in his novel hermitage,
He had in store, for wants of age,
Both house and livelihood.
What more could any rat desire?
He grew fair, fat, and round.
‘God’s blessings thus redound
To those who in His vows retire.’
One day this personage devout,
Whose kindness none might doubt,
Was ask’d, by certain delegates
That came from Rat-United-States,
For some small aid, for they
To foreign parts were on their way,
For succour in the great cat-war.
Ratopolis beleaguer’d sore,
Their whole republic drain’d and poor,
No morsel in their scrips they bore.
Slight boon they craved, of succour sure
In days at utmost three or four.
‘My friends,’ the hermit said,
‘To worldly things I’m dead.
How can a poor recluse
To such a mission be of use?
What can he do but pray
That God will aid it on its way?
And so, my friends, it is my prayer
That God will have you in his care.’
His well-fed saintship said no more,
But in their faces shut the door.
What think you, reader, is the service
For which I use this niggard rat?
To paint a monk? No, but a dervise.
A monk, I think, however fat,
Must be more bountiful than that.