Classic Poem

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 granary for all thy train.

Cease, large example of wise thrift, a while
(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 unpaid musicians, crickets, sing.

Lucasta, she that holy makes the day,
And 'stils new life in fields of feuillemorte,
Hath back restored 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.

Austere and Cynic! not one hour t' allow,
To lose with pleasure what thou got'st with pain,
But drive on sacred festivals thy plough,
Tearing highways with thy o'ercharged wain.
Not all thy lifetime one poor minute live,
And thy o'erlaboured bulk with mirth relieve?

Look up then, miserable ant, and spy
Thy fatal foes, for breaking of her law,
Hovering above thee--Madam, Margaret Pie,
And her fierce servant, meagre Sir John Daw:
Thyself and storehouse now they do store up,
And thy whole harvest too within their crop.

Thus we unthrifty thrive within earth's tomb
For some more ravenous and ambitious jaw:
The grain in th' ant's, the ant's in the pie's womb,
The pie in th' hawk's, the hawk's i' th' eagle's maw:
So scattering to hoard gainst a long day,
Thinking to save all, we cast all away.