When, Atlas-born, the Pleiad stars [78]arise Before the sun above the dawning skies, ’Tis time to reap; and when they sink below The morn-illumined west, [79]’tis time to sow. Know too they set, immerged into the sun, While forty days entire their circle run; And with the lapse of the revolving year, When sharpen’d is the sickle, re-appear. Law of the fields, and known to every swain Who turns the fallow soil beside the main; Or who, remote from billowy ocean’s gales, Tills the rich glebe of inland-winding vales. [80]Plough naked still, and naked sow the soil, And naked reap; if kindly to thy toil Thou hope to gather all that Ceres yields, And view thy crops in season crown the fields; Lest thou to strangers’ gates penurious rove, And every needy effort fruitless prove: E’en as to me thou cam’st; but hope no more That I shall give or lend thee of my store. Oh foolish Perses! be the labours thine Which the good gods to earthly man assign; Lest with thy spouse, thy babes, thou vagrant ply, And sorrowing crave those alms which all deny. Twice may thy plaints benignant favour gain, And haply thrice may not be pour’d in vain; If still persisting plead thy wearying prayer, Thy words are nought, thy eloquence is air. Did exhortation move, the thought should be, From debt releasement, days from hunger free. A house, a woman, and a steer provide, Thy slave to tend the cows, but not thy bride. Within let all fit implements abound, Lest with refused entreaty wandering round, Thy wants still press, the season glide away, And thou with scanted labour mourn the day. Thy task defer not till the morn arise, Or the third sun th’ unfinish’d work surprise. [81]The idler never shall his garners fill, Nor he that still defers and lingers still. Lo! diligence can prosper every toil; The loiterer strives with loss and execrates the soil. When rests the keen strength of th’ o’erpowering sun From heat that made the pores in rivers run; When rushes in fresh rains autumnal Jove, And man’s unburthen’d limbs now lightlier move; For now the star of day with transient light Rolls o’er our heads and joys in longer night; When from the worm the forest boles are sound, [82]Trees bud no more, but earthward cast around Their withering foliage, then remember well The timely labour, and thy timber fell. Hew from the wood [83]a mortar of three feet; Three cubits may the pestle’s length complete: Seven feet the fittest axle-tree extends; If eight the log, the eighth a mallet lends. Cleave many curved blocks thy wheel to round, And let three spans its outmost orbit bound; Whereon slow-rolling thy suspended wain, Ten spans in breadth, may traverse firm the plain. If hill or field supply a holm-oak bough