In olden days, when animals could speak, the lions, among others, hankered for our company. And why not? They possessed as much of bravery, intelligence, and handsomeness as we.
One day beside a meadow strolled a lion of high birth. He spotted a young shepherdess who pleased his eye. With leonine forthrightness, he proposed.
Her father, to be honest, would have preferred a son-in-law less terrible. He worried for his daughter’s safety; but, should he refuse, he worried too for his. And even if he did refuse, they might conceivably elope: he knew how fond his daughter was of lordly types, and how susceptible she was to long blond hair.
Not daring, then, to candidly dismiss the beast, the father said:
“My girl, you know, is delicate. Your claws, I fear, might hurt her, though a caress be your intention. Let us, therefore, pare them. Permit us, too, to file your teeth, and mollify your kiss; your pleasure will as well increase, for she’ll respond, when freed from caution, with more passion.”
The lion acquiesced—so blind does love make lovers!
Now behold him: there he stands, defenseless as a fort unfortified.
The hounds are loosed; they with impunity press the attack, and limb from limb they rip.
We are improvident when in love’s grip.