HAR. Ay, ay; nought seek, nought have: An ill-husband is the first step to a knave. You object, I feed none at my board: I am sure, if you were a hog, you would never say so: for, sir reverence of their worships, they feed at my stable-table every day. I keep good hospitality for hens and geese: gleaners are oppressed with heavy burthens of my bounty: They take me and eat me to the very bones, Till there be nothing left but gravel and stones; And yet I give no alms, but devour all! They say, what a man cannot hear well, you hear with your harvest-ears; but if you heard with your harvest-ears, that is, with the ears of corn which my alms-cart scatters, they would tell you that I am the very poor man's box of pity; that there are more holes of liberality open in Harvest's heart than in a sieve or a dust-box. Suppose you were a craftsman or an artificer, and should come to buy corn of me, you should have bushels of me; not like the baker's loaf, that should weigh but six ounces, but usury for your money, thousands for one. What would you have more? Eat me out of my apparel,[74] if you will, if you suspect me for a miser. SUM. I credit thee, and think thou wert belied. But tell me, hast thou a good crop this year? HAR. Hay, good[75] plenty, which was so sweet and so good, that when I jerted my whip, and said to my horses but _hay_, they would go as they were mad. SUM. But _hay_ alone thou sayst not, but _hay-ree_[76]. HAR. I sing hay-ree, that is, hay and rye; meaning that they shall have hay and rye, their bellyfuls, if they will draw hard. So we say, _Wa hay_, when they go out of the way; meaning that they shall want hay if they will not do as they should do. SUM. How thrive thy oats, thy barley, and thy wheat? HAR. My oats grow like a cup of beer that makes the brewer rich; my rye like a cavalier, that wears a huge feather in his cap, but hath no courage in his heart; hath[77] a long stalk, a goodly husk, but nothing so great a kernel as it was wont. My barley, even as many a novice, is cross-bitten,[78] as soon as ever he peeps out of the shell, so was it frost-bitten in the blad, yet pick'd up his crumbs again afterward, and bad "Fill pot, hostess," in spite of a dear year. As for my peas and my vetches, they are famous, and not to be spoken of. AUT. Ay, ay, such country-button'd caps as you Do want no fetches[79] to undo great towns. HAR. Will you make good your words that we want no fetches? WIN. Ay, that he shall. HAR. Then fetch us a cloak-bag, to carry away yourself in. SUM. Plough-swains are blunt, and will taunt bitterly. Harvest, when all is done, thou art the man: Thou dost me the best service of them all. Rest from thy labours, till the year renews, And let the husbandmen [all] sing thy praise. HAR. Rest from my labours, and let the husbandmen sing my praise? Nay, we do not mean to rest so: by your leave, we'll have a largess amongst you, ere we part. ALL. A largess, a largess, a largess!