Through their inroads our victual spoils; it is no more.
First stop mouse-holes; make safe thy granary, O man!
Thy wheat then garner safely; winter’s at our van.
Give ear to what he’s said, the Lord’s own Chief of Chiefs:[84]
“No perfect worship’s needed, save in war’s reliefs.”[85]
If mice there be not to destroy our garnered meeds,
Where is our wheat, the fruit of fifty summers’ deeds?60
To shreds all nibbled lie the products of our days;
No stores accumulate for provend on our ways.
How many sparks of fire from flint and steel have flown!