Sit in the crowded portico and feed
On that ill hope, while starving with his need.
Thou in mid-summer to thy labourers cry,
[97]“Make now your nests,” for summer hours will fly.
Beware the January month: beware
Those hurtful days, that keenly piercing air
Which flays the herds; [98]those frosts that bitter sheathe
The nipping air and glaze the ground beneath.
From Thracia, nurse of steeds, comes rushing forth,
O’er the broad sea, the whirlwind of the north,