Reminded me of the last verse of a French fable, The Cricket (a.k.a True Happiness):
"Pour vivre heureux, vivons cachés."
- Jean-Pierre Claris de Florian - Le Grillon†, Fables, 1792
Here's my quick-and-dirty attempt at a translation:
Poor little cricket
Hidden in grass flowery
A gliding butterfly
Beheld in the prairie.
The winged insect of bright colours shining;
Cerulean, gold, crimson burst on his wings;
Young pretty little master, he runs flower to flower,
Taking and leaving every which is prettier.
Ah! Said the cricket his fate and mine
Are quite not alike! Mother Nature
Gifted him all, and to myself nothing.
Of talent bereft, of face even less.
Disregarded down here, none take notice:
I just as much might not exist.
As he rambled, in the prairie
A childish troupe comes happily:
Chasing they are hastily
The butterfly they so envy.
Hats of all sorts to catch their game;
The insect twists and swerves in vain,
And soon enough becomes their prize.
A wing taken, a body seized,
A head now gone, a swift demise:
Little effort has it taken
To tear apart the beast fallen.
Oh! Oh! Cricket said, I am no more irate;
Too high a price it is to shine.
How I will love my deep retreat!
To live happy, live discreetly.
