He burns the leaves, the scorching blast invades
The tender corn, and shrivels up the blades.
DRYDEN.

Thou king of horned floods, whose plenteous urn
Suffices fatness to the fruitful corn,
Shalt share my morning song and evening vows.
DRYDEN.

No fruitful crop the sickly fields return;
But oats and darnel choke the rising corn.

DRYDEN.

Some steep their seeds, and some in cauldrons boil

O'er gentle fires; the exuberant juice to drain, And swell the flatt'ring husks with fruitful grain. DRYDEN.

Mark well the flow'ring almonds in the wood: If od'rous blooms the bearing branches load, The glebe will answer to the sylvan reign: Great heats will follow, and large crops of grain. DRYDEN.

corn,

And an unthrifty crop of weeds was born.

DRYDEN. The bearded corn ensued From earth unask'd; nor was that earth renew'd. DRYDEN.

Your hay it is mow'd, and your corn it is reap'd; Your barns will be full, and your hovels heap'd;

Come, my boys, come,

Come, my boys, come,

And merrily roar out harvest-home.

DRYDEN.

Moist earth produces corn and grass, but both Too rank and too luxuriant in their growth. Let not my land so large a promise boast, Lest the lank ears in length of stem be lost.

DRYDEN.

Delve of convenient depth your threshing floor; With temper'd clay then fill and face it o'er. DRYDEN.

In vain the hinds the threshing floor prepare, And exercise their flails in empty air.

DRYDEN.

If a wood of leaves o'ershade the tree,
In vain the hind shall vex the threshing floor,
For empty chaff and straw will be thy store.
DRYDEN.

On a short pruning-hook his head reclines,
And studiously surveys his gen'rous vines.
DRYDEN.

She in pens his flocks will fold.

DRYDEN.

In shallow furrows vines securely grow.
DRYDEN.
The vineyard must employ thy sturdy steer
To turn the glebe; besides thy daily pain
To break the clods, and make the surface plain.
DRYDEN.

Beats down the slender stem and bearded grain.

DRYDEN.

Oft the drudging ass is driven with toil;
Returning late and loaden home with gain
Of barter'd pitch, and handmills for the grain.
DRYDEN.

In the sun your golden grain display, And thrash it out and winnow it by day.

DRYDEN.

We may know

And when to reap the grain and when to sow, Or when to fell the furzes.

DRYDEN: Virgil.

You who supply the ground with seeds of grain, And you who swell those seeds with kindly rain. DRYDEN.

When continued rain The lab'ring husband in his house restrain, Let him forecast his work with timely care, Which else is huddled when the skies are fair. DRYDEN.

And oft whole sheets descend of sluicy rain, Suck'd by the spungy clouds from off the main: The lofty skies at once come pouring down, The promised crop and golden labours drown. DRYDEN.

She took the coleworts which her husband got From his own ground (a small well-water'd spot);

She stripp'd the stalks of all their leaves; the best She cull'd, and then with handy care she dress'd. DRYDEN.

But when the western winds with vital pow'r Call forth the tender grass and budding flow'r, Men, at the last, produce in open air

Both flocks, and send them to their summer's fare.

DRYDEN.

The bending scythe

with rakes,

GAY.

The ploughman leaves the task of day,
And trudging homeward whistles on the way.
GAY.

How turnips hide their swelling heads below,
And how the closing coleworts upwards grow.
GAY.

Cheerful at morn, he wakes from short repose,
Breathes the keen air, and carols as he goes.
GOLDSMITH: Traveller.

Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey,
Where wealth accumulates and men decay;
Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;
A breath can make them, as a breath has made:
But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,
When once destroy'd can never be supplied.
GOLDSMITH: Deserted Village.

Nor is 't unwholesome to subdue the land
By often exercise; and where before
You broke the earth, again to plow.

MAY.
The ground one year at rest, forget not then
With richest dung to hearten it again.
MAY.

Their bulls they send to pastures far
On hills, or feed them at full racks within.
MAY.

Bring them for food sweet boughs and osiers cut, Nor all the winter long thy hay-rick shut.

DRYDEN.

4

MAY.