The Fox and the Grapes

Based off of Aesop\'s Fable

The Bispel of Renard and the Grapis
(A 12th-Century Style Fable for Performance)
A fox there was of wily kind,
With hunger gnawing in his mind.
The sun was high in summer’s tide,
Across the heath did Renard stride.
Through holts and hills and bushes green,
The leanest beast that e'er was seen.
His guts did chime with hollow sound,
As shadows crept upon the ground.
He came upon a garden wall,
Where vines of gold began to fall.
And there, behold, a fairly sight,
To fill a shrewd heart with delight.
The grapis hung down in clusters bold,
Like jewels set in abbey gold.
Their skins were dark as monk’s own dye,
To tempt the traveler passing by.
"O grapis!" the fox began to gale,
With longing heart and muzzle pale.
"Your liquor sweet would quench my thirst,
Ere that my weary heart should burst.
No flesh of fowl nor forest mouse,
Could glad the lord of Renard's house."
He stood beneath the trellis frame,
And blessed the fruit in Jesus' name.
He leaped with all his might and main,
But found his swink was all in vain.
He sprang again with heavy grace,
The sweat a-running down his face.
His talons clawed at empty air,
While field-birds all began to stare.
One span, two spans, still far too high,
The purple fruit mocked every try.
He looked aloft with bitter cheer,
And mocked the fruit he held so dear.
"Why do I cumber thus my soul,
To reach a base and fretted goal?
These grapis are fell and sour-ripe,
A sorry prize for such a type."
"They're naught but skin and bitter seed,
Unfit to serve a noble need.
I'd sooner chew on winter’s thorn,
Than touch a vine I hold in scorn."
He twitched his brush with haughty pride,
And cast the garden-wall aside.
With lofty step and nose in air,
He left the clusters hanging there.
He trotted stark across the lea,
As proud as any king could be.
He feigned a full and happy heart,
Though hunger pierced him like a dart.
The Epimythium (The Moral)
Now hearken well, both high and low,
To what this parable doth show.
When men desire a lofty thing,
Beyond the reach of hand or wing,
They deem the prize is naught but sour,
To shield their pride in failing hour.
It is the solace of the weak,
To scorn the goal they cannot seek.

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