But not for such detested things.—
You talk of matron’s lips and kings;
I, who with wakeful care and pains
Against the winter hoard my grains,
Thee feeding upon ordure view.—
The altars you frequent, ’tis true;
But still are driv’n away from thence,
And elsewhere, as of much offence.
A life of toil you will not lead,
And so have nothing when you need.