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In ancient times, the sacred Plough employ'd The Kings and awful Fathers of mankind: And some, with whom compared your insect-tribes Are but the beings of a summer's day, Have held the Scale of Empire, ruled the Storm Of mighty War, then, with victorious hand, Disdaining little delicacies, seized The Plough, and, greatly independent, scorned All the vile stores corruption can bestow.

Ill husbandry braggeth To go with the best: Good husbandry baggeth Up gold in his chest. - Thomas Tusser,

Ill husbandry lieth In prison for debt: Good husbandry spieth Where profit get. - Thomas Tusser,

He was a very inferior farmer when he first begun . . . and he is now fast rising from affluence to poverty.

E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain, Oft have I seen the war of winds contend, And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend, Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn, The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne, As light straw and rapid stubble fly In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.