There hung some bunches of the purple grape
On a hillside. A cunning fox, agape
For these full clusters, many times essay'd
To cull their dark bloom, many vain leaps made.
They were quite ripe and for the vintage fit;
But when his leaps did not avail a whit,
He journey'd on, and thus his grief composed:
"The bunch was sour, not ripe, as I supposed."
Source: Davies: Fables of Babrius = Babrius 19
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