Thou, then, may’st reap, and idle sit between:
Mocking thy gripe the meagre stalks are seen:
Whilst, little joyful, gather’st thou in bands
The corn whose chaffy dust bestrews thy hands.
In one scant basket shall thy harvest lie,
[94]And few shall pass thee, then, with honouring eye.
Now thus, now otherwise is Jove’s design;
To men inscrutable the ways divine:
But if thou late upturn the furrow’d field,
One happy chance a remedy may yield.