Wherein my toil had set fair Ceres' garden—
With foul and flaunting weeds to overrun
My country, I have been tempted to forego
The idle reaping, uplay the soil itself,
And with some few and trusted followers
Rouse a new Spring to breed us gracious harvest.
Aris. But he who strikes at heritage gives riot
Fair leave to play above his trampled grave,
And rather than usurp a wrong with right,
You bend your strength to make the wrong a virtue.