It shall not mock thy hopes: be last thy toil,
Raised in light ridge, to sow the fallow’d soil:
The fallow’d soil bids execration fly,
And brightens with content the infant’s eye.
[91]Jove subterrene, chaste Ceres claim thy vow,
When grasping first the handle of the plough,
O’er thy broad oxen’s backs thy quickening hand
With lifted stroke lets fall the goading wand;
Whilst yoked and harness’d by the fastening thong,
They slowly drag the draught-pole’s length along.