Prevod

(Some poor writers readily flatter themselves that they will win fame after death when they have failed to earn it in life.) A Goat stood listening long and keenly to the gentle strains of a tuneful violin. Her feet danced with delight, and to a certain Nag, who stood so spellbound 5 he had almost forgotten his feed, she spoke these words: “Do you not hear the harmony of those strings? Then know that they are the guts of a Goat who was once a companion of mine. 10 I trust—what bliss!—that someday my own resounding entrails will produce trills no less sweet.” The good old Nag turned and replied: “Upon my word, those strings would make no sound 15 were they not stroked with hairs that I endured having plucked from my tail. It cost me pain and gave me quite a fright; but now, at last, I have the pleasure of seeing how much brilliance 20 that musical instrument owes to my help. You, who hope for equal satisfaction, when will you enjoy it? After you are dead.” Just so, because in life he has not managed to see his work applauded, 25 some wretched writer appeals to posterity’s judgment, and consoles himself.