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 No fruitful crop the sickly fields return; Tough thistles choked the fields, and kill'd the 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; Come, my boys, come, 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; In vain the hinds the threshing floor prepare, DRYDEN. If a wood of leaves o'ershade the tree, On a short pruning-hook his head reclines, She in pens his flocks will fold. DRYDEN. DRYDEN. The vineyard must employ thy sturdy steer 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: The low'ring spring, with lavish rain, Oft the drudging ass is driven with toil; In the sun your golden grain display, 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 But when the western winds with vital pow'r fare. DRYDEN. The bending scythe Nor is the profit small the peasant makes, Who smooths with harrow, or who pounds Shaves all the surface of the waving green. with rakes, GAY. The ploughman leaves the task of day, How turnips hide their swelling heads below, Ill fares the land, to hast'ning ills a prey, Nor is 't unwholesome to subdue the land |