Hedges too must be woven and all beasts Barred entrance, chiefly while the leaf is young And witless of disaster; for therewith, Beside harsh winters and o'erpowering sun, Wild buffaloes and pestering goats for ay Besport them, sheep and heifers glut their greed. Nor cold by hoar-frost curdled, nor the prone Dead weight of summer upon the parched crags, So scathe it, as the flocks with venom-bite Of their hard tooth, whose gnawing scars the stem. For no offence but this to Bacchus bleeds The goat at every altar, and old plays Upon the stage find entrance; therefore too The sons of Theseus through the country-side- Hamlet and crossway- set the prize of wit, And on the smooth sward over oiled skins Dance in their tipsy frolic. Furthermore The Ausonian swains, a race from Troy derived, Make merry with rough rhymes and boisterous mirth, Grim masks of hollowed bark assume, invoke Thee with glad hymns, O Bacchus, and to thee Hang puppet-faces on tall pines to swing. Hence every vineyard teems with mellowing fruit, Till hollow vale o'erflows, and gorge profound, Where'er the god hath turned his comely head. Therefore to Bacchus duly will we sing Meet honour with ancestral hymns, and cates And dishes bear him; and the doomed goat Led by the horn shall at the altar stand, Whose entrails rich on hazel-spits we'll roast. This further task again, to dress the vine, Hath needs beyond exhausting; the whole soil Thrice, four times, yearly must be cleft, the sod With hoes reversed be crushed continually, The whole plantation lightened of its leaves. Round on the labourer spins the wheel of toil, As on its own track rolls the circling year. Soon as the vine her lingering leaves hath shed, And the chill north wind from the forests shook Their coronal, even then the careful swain Looks keenly forward to the coming year, With Saturn's curved fang pursues and prunes The vine forlorn, and lops it into shape. Be first to dig the ground up, first to clear And burn the refuse-branches, first to house Again your vine-poles, last to gather fruit. Twice doth the thickening shade beset the vine, Twice weeds with stifling briers o'ergrow the crop; And each a toilsome labour. Do thou praise Broad acres, farm but few. Rough twigs beside Of butcher's broom among the woods are cut, And reeds upon the river-banks, and still The undressed willow claims thy fostering care. So now the vines are fettered, now the trees Let go the sickle, and the last dresser now Sings of his finished rows; but still the ground Must vexed be, the dust be stirred, and heaven Still set thee trembling for the ripened grapes. Not so with olives; small husbandry need they, Nor look for sickle bowed or biting rake, When once they have gripped the soil, and borne the breeze. Earth of herself, with hooked fang laid bare, Yields moisture for the plants, and heavy fruit, The ploughshare aiding; therewithal thou'lt rear The olive's fatness well-beloved of Peace. Apples, moreover, soon as first they feel