'A fig for these, they're never worth their pay.'
Let the mown swathes look northward, ye who mow,
Or westward—for the ears grow fattest so.
Avoid a noontide nap, ye threshing men:
The chaff flies thickest from the corn-ears then.
Wake when the lark wakes; when he slumbers, close
Your work, ye reapers: and at noontide doze.
Boys, the frogs' life for me! They need not him
Who fills the flagon, for in drink they swim.
Better boil herbs, thou toiler after gain,