The Ape

La Fontaine January 17, 2015
1 min read
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    There is an ape in Paris,
    To which was given a wife:
    Like many a one that marries,
    This ape, in brutal strife,
    Soon beat her out of life.
    Their infant cries,—perhaps not fed,—
    But cries, I ween, in vain;
    The father laughs: his wife is dead,
    And he has other loves again,
    Which he will also beat, I think,—
    Return’d from tavern drown’d in drink.
    For aught that’s good, you need not look
    Among the imitative tribe;
    A monkey be it, or what makes a book—
    The worse, I deem—the aping scribe.

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