Apulian farms, for the rich soil admired,
And thy large fields, where falcons may be tired.
DRYDEN.

Much labour is required in trees;

Well must the ground be digg'd, and better
dress'd,
New soil to make, and meliorate the rest.
DRYDEN.

Of the same soil their nursery prepare
With that of their plantation, lest the tree
Translated should not with the soil agree.
DRYDEN.

Better gleanings their worn soil can boast
Than the crab vintage of the neighb'ring coast.
DRYDEN.

When the Nile from Pharian fields is fled,
The fat manure with heav'nly fire is warm'd.
DRYDEN.

That the spent earth may gather heart again, And, better'd by cessation, bear the grain.

DRYDEN.

Next, fenced with hedges and deep ditches round, Exclude th' encroaching cattle from the ground. DRYDEN.

The crooked plough, the share, the tow'ring height

Of wagons, and the cart's unwieldy weight;
These all must be prepared.

DRYDEN.

'Tis good for arable; a glebe that asks Tough teams of oxen; and laborious tasks. DRYDEN.

And plough'd, and sow'd, and till'd;
The thorns he rooted out, the rubbish clear'd,
And blest th' obedient field.
DRYDEN.

Men plough with oxen of their own
Their small paternal field of corn.

DRYDEN.

The field is spacious I design to sow, With oxen far unfit to draw the plough.

DRYDEN.

No plough shall hurt the glebe, no pruninghook the vine.

DRYDEN.

The teeming earth, yet guileless of the plough, And unprovoked, did fruitful stores allow.

DRYDEN.

The sweating steers unharness'd from the yoke Bring back the crooked plough.

DRYDEN.

An ox that waits the coming blow, Old and unprofitable to the plough.

DRYDEN.

Who can cease to admire The ploughman consul in his coarse attire? DRYDEN.

The lab'ring swain Scratch'd with a rake a furrow for his grain, And cover'd with his hand the shallow seed again. DRYDEN.

His corn and cattle were his only care,
And his supreme delight a country fair.

DRYDEN.

Begin when the slow waggoner descends, Nor cease your sowing till midwinter ends.

DRYDEN.

For sundry foes the rural realm surround;
The field-mouse builds her garner under ground:
For gather'd grain the blind laborious mole,
In winding mazes, works her hidden hole.

DRYDEN.

Where the vales with violets once were crown'd, Now knotty burs and thorns disgrace the ground.

DRYDEN.

Most have found A husky harvest from the grudging ground. DRYDEN. For flax and oats will burn the tender field, And sleepy poppies harmful harvests yield. DRYDEN. But various are the ways to change the state, To plant, to bud, to graft, to inoculate.

DRYDEN.

The peasant, innocent of all these ills,
With crooked ploughs the fertile fallow tills,
And the round year with daily labour fills.

DRYDEN.

To his county farm the fool confined;
Rude work well suited with a rustic mind.
DRYDEN.

Thou hop'st with sacrifice of oxen slain
To compass wealth, and bribe the god of gain
To give thee flocks and herds, with large in-

crease;

Fool! to expect them from a bullock's grease. DRYDEN.

Apollo check'd my pride, and bade me feed My fatt'ning flocks, nor dare beyond the reed. DRYDEN.

Let Araby extol her happy coast,

To dress the vines new labour is required,
Nor must the painful husbandman be tired.
DRYDEN.

Give me, ye gods, the product of one field,
That so I neither may be rich nor poor;
And having just enough, not covet more.
DRYDEN.

All was common, and the fruitful earth
Was free to give her unexacted birth.

DRYDEN. Their morning milk the peasants press at night; Their evening milk before the rising light. DRYDEN.

The peaceful peasant to the wars is prest,
The fields lie fallow in inglorious rest.

DRYDEN.

Where the tender rinds of trees disclose
Their shooting germs, a swelling knot there

grows;

Just in that place a narrow slit we make, Then other buds from bearing trees we take; Inserted thus, the wounded rind we close. DRYDEN.

Your farm requites your pains, Though rushes overspread the neighb'ring plains. DRYDEN.

Rocks lie cover'd with eternal snow;
Thin herbage in the plains, and fruitless fields.
DRYDEN.

Uneasy still within these narrow bounds,
Thy next design is on thy neighbour's grounds:
His crop invites, to full perfection grown;
Thy own seems thin, because it is thy own.
DRYDEN.

T' unload the branches, or the leaves to thin
That suck the vital moisture of the vine.

DRYDEN.