His handiwork he must hold dear,
And what he made shall he deny?
There sounds the devil's halting hoof, I fear.
39.
In Summer.
In sweat of face, so runs the screed,
We e'er must eat our bread,
Yet wise physicians if we heed
"Eat naught in sweat," 'tis said.
The dog-star's blinking: what's his need?