Thus in a Circle runs the Peasant's Pain,And the Year rowls within it self again.Ev'n in the lowest Months, when Storms have shedFrom Vines the hairy Honours of their Head;Not then the drudging Hind his Labour ends;But to the coming Year his Care extends:Ev'n then the naked Vine he persecutes;His Pruning Knife at once Reforms and Cuts.Be first to dig the Ground, be first to burnThe Branches lopt, and first the Props returnInto thy House, that bore the burden'd Vines;But last to reap the Vintage of thy Wines.Twice in the Year luxuriant Leaves o'reshadeThe incumber'd Vine; rough Brambles twice invade:Hard Labour both! commend the large excessOf spacious Vineyards; cultivate the less.Besides, in Woods the Shrubs of prickly Thorn,Sallows and Reeds, on Banks of Rivers born,Remain to cut; for Vineyards useful found,To stay thy Vines, and fence thy fruitful Ground.Nor when thy tender Trees at length are bound;When peaceful Vines from Pruning Hooks are free,When Husbands have survey'd the last degree,And utmost Files of Plants, and order'd ev'ry Tree;Ev'n when they sing at ease in full Content,Insulting o're the Toils they underwent;Yet still they find a future Task remain;To turn the Soil, and break the Clods again:And after all, their Joys are unsincere,While falling Rains on ripening Grapes they fear.Quite opposite to these are Olives found,No dressing they require, and dread no wound;Nor Rakes nor Harrows need, but fix'd below,Rejoyce in open Air, and unconcerndly grow.0