[84]Of bending figure like the downward plough, Bear it away: this durable remains While the strong steers in ridges cleave the plains: If with firm nails [85]thy artist join the whole, Affix the share-beam, and adapt the pole. Two ploughs provide, on household works intent, This art-compacted, that of native bent: A prudent fore-thought: one may crashing fail, The other, instant yoked, shall prompt avail. Of elm or bay the draught-pole firm endures, The plough-tail holm, the share-beam oak secures. Two males procure: be nine their sum of years: Then hale and strong for toil the sturdy steers: Nor shall they headstrong-struggling spurn the soil, And snap the plough and mar th’ unfinish’d toil. In forty’s prime thy ploughman: one [86]with bread Of four-squared loaf in double portions fed. He steadily shall cut the furrow true, Nor towards his fellows glance a rambling view: Still on his task intent: a stripling throws Heedless the seed, and in one furrow strows The lavish handful twice: while wistful stray His longing thoughts to comrades far away. Mark yearly when among the clouds on high Thou hear’st [87]the shrill crane’s migratory cry, [88]Of ploughing-time the sign and wintry rains: Care gnaws his heart who destitute remains Of the fit yoke: for then the season falls To feed thy horned steers within their stalls. Easy to speak the word, “beseech thee friend! Thy waggon and thy yoke of oxen lend:” Easy the prompt refusal; “nay, but I Have need of oxen, and their work is nigh.” [89]Rich in his own conceit, he then too late May think to rear the waggon’s timber’d weight: Fool! nor yet knows the complicated frame A hundred season’d blocks may fitly claim: [90]These let thy timely care provide before, And pile beneath thy roof the ready store. Improve the season: to the plough apply Both thou and thine; and toil in wet and dry: Haste to the field with break of glimmering morn, That so thy grounds may wave with thickening corn. In spring upturn the glebe: and break again With summer tilth the iterated plain, It shall not mock thy hopes: be last thy toil, Raised in light ridge, to sow the fallow’d soil: The fallow’d soil bids execration fly, And brightens with content the infant’s eye. [91]Jove subterrene, chaste Ceres claim thy vow, When grasping first the handle of the plough, O’er thy broad oxen’s backs thy quickening hand With lifted stroke lets fall the goading wand; Whilst yoked and harness’d by the fastening thong, They slowly drag the draught-pole’s length along. So shall the sacred gifts of earth appear, And ripe luxuriance clothe the plenteous ear. A boy should tread thy steps: with rake o’erlay The buried seed, [92]and scare the birds away: (Good is the apt œconomy of things