We are the Lords of wine and oile:
By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
We rip up first, then reap our lands.
Crown'd with the eares of corne, now come,
And, to the pipe, sing Harvest-home.
Come forth, my Lord, and see the cart
Drest up with all the country art.
See, here a Maukin, there a sheet,
As spotlesse pure, as it is sweet:
The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,