(Recueil 3, Livre 12, Fable 19)
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 believe, in vain;
The father laughs: his wife is dead,
And he has other loves again,
Which he will also beat, I think,
Returned from tavern drowned in drink.
For anything 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.
Jean de La Fontaine