We scare our Wives, when Ev’ning brings us home,
And frighted Infants think the Bugbear come.
Week after Week, we this dull Task pursue,
Unless when winn’wing Days produce a new;
A new, indeed, but frequently a worse,
The Threshal yields but to the Master’s Curse.
He counts the Bushels, counts how much a Day;
Then swears we’ve idled half our Time away:
‘Why, look ye, Rogues, d’ye think that this will do?
Your neighbours thresh as much again as you.’