"Quintius here was born, Whose shining ploughshare was in furrows worn, Met by his trembling wife, returning home, And rustically joy’d, as chief of Rome."

"Pales no longer swell’d the teeming grain, Nor Phœbus fed his oxen on the plain."

"When the fiery suns too fiercely play, And shriyell’d herbs on with’ring stems decay, The wary ploughman, on the mountain’s brow, Undams his wat’ry stores; huge torrents flow; Temp’ring the thirsty fever of the field."

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

"The crooked plough, the share, the tow’ ring height Of wagons, and the cart’s unwieldy weight; These all must be prepared."

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

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

"When the Nile from Pharian fields is fled, The fat manure with heay’nly fire is warm’d."

"Better gleanings their worn soil can boast Than the crab vintage of the neighb’ring coast,"

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

"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."

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

"No fences parted fields, nor marks nor bounds Distinguish’d acres of litigious grounds."

"These are the effects of doting age, Vain doubts, and idle cares, and over caution."

"A look so pale no quartane ever gave; My dwindled legs seem crawling to a grave."

"These I wielded while my bloom was warm, Ere age unstrung my nerves, or time o’er-snow’d my head."

"Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellow’d long; Even wonder’d at, because he dropt no sooner. Fate seem’d to wind him up for fourscore years; Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more: Till like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still."

"Thus then my loved Euryalus appears; He looks the prop of my declining years."

"The feeble old, indulgent of their ease."

"Jove, grant me length of life, and years good store Heap on my bended back."

"O’er whom Time gently shakes his wings of down, Till with his silent sickle they are mown."

"Beroe but now I left; whom, pined with pain, Her age and anguish from these rites detain."

"Just in the gate Dwelt pale diseases and repining age."

"Now leave these joys, unsuiting to thy age, To a fresh comer, and resign the stage."

"Were I no queen, did you my beauty weigh, My youth in bloom, your age in its decay."

"Age has not yet So shrunk my sinews, or so chill’d my veins, But conscious virtue in my breast remains."

"And sin’s black dye seems blanch’d by age to virtue."

"Time seems not now beneath his years to stoop, Nor do his wings with sickly feathers droop."

"Time has made you dote, and vainly tell Of arms imagined in your lonely cell: Go! be the temple and the gods your care; Permit to men the thought of peace and war."

"So noiseless would I live, such death to find: Like timely fruit, not shaken by the wind, But ripely dropping from the sapless bough."

"What, start at this! when sixty years have spread Their grey experience o’er thy hoary head? Is this the all observing age could gain? Or hast thou known the world so long in vain?"

"When the hoary head is hid in snow, The life is in the leaf, and still between The fits of falling snows appears the streaky green."

"This advantage youth from age hath won, As not to be outridden though outrun."

"You season still with sports your serious hours, For age but tastes of pleasures, youth devours."

"He look’d in years, yet in his years were seen A youthful vigor, and autumnal green."

"Yet unimpair’d with labours, or with time, Your age but seems to a new youth to climb."

"His youth and age All of a piece throughout, and all divine."

"Our green youth copies what grey sinners act, When age commends the fact."

"Prudence, thou vainly in our youth art sought, And with age purchased, art too dearly bought: We’re past the use of wit for which we toil: Late fruit, and planted in too cold a soil."