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I.
Forbear, thou great good husband, little ant;
A
little respite from thy flood of sweat!
Thou, thine
own horse and cart under this plant,
Thy spacious
tent, fan thy prodigious heat;
Down with thy double
load of that one grain!
It is a granarie for all thy
train.
II.
Cease, large example of wise
thrift, awhile
(For thy example is become our law),
And teach thy frowns a seasonable smile:
So Cato
sometimes the nak'd Florals saw.
And thou, almighty
foe, lay by thy sting,
Whilst thy unpay'd musicians,
crickets, sing.
III.
Lucasta, she that
holy makes the day,
And 'stills new life in fields
of fueillemort,
Hath back restor'd their verdure
with one ray,
And with her eye bid all to play and
sport,
Ant, to work still! age will thee truant
call;
And to save now, th'art worse than prodigal.
IV.
Austere and cynick! not one hour t'
allow,
To lose with pleasure, what thou gotst with
pain;
But drive on sacred festivals thy plow,
Tearing high-ways with thy ore-charged wain.
Not all
thy life-time one poor minute live,
And thy ore-labour'd
bulk with mirth relieve?
V.
Look up then,
miserable ant, and spie
Thy fatal foes, for breaking
of their law,
Hov'ring above thee: Madam Margaret
Pie:
And her fierce servant, meagre Sir John Daw:
Thy self and storehouse now they do store up,
And thy whole harvest too within their crop.
VI.
Thus we unthrifty thrive within earth's tomb
For
some more rav'nous and ambitious jaw:
The grain in
th' ant's, the ant in the pie's womb,
The pie in th'
hawk's, the hawk ith' eagle's maw.
So scattering to
hord 'gainst a long day,
Thinking to save all, we
cast all away.
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