In wakeful mood the village freemen hie,—
Some with the scythe inflict the sun-brown’d blade,
Whilst some,[188] unworthy, ’sue their idle trade;
But those upholders of th’ industrial arm
Shall be at peace when idlers feel alarm:
The first, their features tell the healthiest tale,
While they, the last, are dirty, thin, and pale:
Along the lanes the perfumes as they rise
The former greet, the latter would despise.
Go! slothful saunt’rer on the road of life