A Fox having crept into an out-house, looked up and down, seeking what
he might devour, and at last spied a Hen perched up so high, that he
could by no means come at her. My dear friend, says he, how do you
do? I heard that you were ill, and kept within; at which I was so
concerned, that I could not rest till I came to see you. Pray how is it
with you now? Let me feel your pulse a little: indeed you do not look
well at all. He was running on after this fulsome manner, when the Hen
answered him from the roost, Truly, friend Reynard, you are judging
rightly, for I never was in more pain in my life: I must beg your
pardon for being so free as to tell you that I see no company; and you
must excuse me too for not coming down to you, for, to say the truth,
my condition is such, that I fear I should catch my death by it.