Our rural ancestors with little blest,
Patient of labour when the end was rest,
Indulg'd the day read more

Our rural ancestors with little blest,
Patient of labour when the end was rest,
Indulg'd the day that hous'd their annual grain,
With feasts, and off'rings, and a thankful strain.

Ill husbandry lieth
In prison for debt:
Good husbandry spieth
Where profit get.
read more

Ill husbandry lieth
In prison for debt:
Good husbandry spieth
Where profit get.
- Thomas Tusser,

He who owns the soil, owns up to the sky.
[Lat., Cujus est solum, ejus est usque ad coelum.]

He who owns the soil, owns up to the sky.
[Lat., Cujus est solum, ejus est usque ad coelum.]

Happy he who far from business, like the primitive are of
mortals, cultivates with his own oxen the fields read more

Happy he who far from business, like the primitive are of
mortals, cultivates with his own oxen the fields of his fathers,
free from all anxieties of gain.
[Lat., Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,
Ut prisca gens mortalium,
Paterna rura bobus exercet suis,
Solutus omni faenore.]

When the land is cultivated entirely by the spade, and no horses
are kept, a cow is kept for read more

When the land is cultivated entirely by the spade, and no horses
are kept, a cow is kept for every three acres of land.

With the introduction of agriculture mankind entered upon a long period of meanness, misery, and madness, from which they are read more

With the introduction of agriculture mankind entered upon a long period of meanness, misery, and madness, from which they are only now being freed by the beneficent operation of the machine.

Ye rigid Ploughman! bear in mind
Your labor is for future hours.
Advance! spare not! nor look read more

Ye rigid Ploughman! bear in mind
Your labor is for future hours.
Advance! spare not! nor look behind!
Plough deep and straight with all your powers!

E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain
Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain,
Oft have read more

E'en in mid-harvest, while the jocund swain
Pluck'd from the brittle stalk the golden grain,
Oft have I seen the war of winds contend,
And prone on earth th' infuriate storm descend,
Waste far and wide, and by the roots uptorn,
The heavy harvest sweep through ether borne,
As light straw and rapid stubble fly
In dark'ning whirlwinds round the wintry sky.

A field becomes exhausted by constant tillage.
[Lat., Continua messe senescit ager.]

A field becomes exhausted by constant tillage.
[Lat., Continua messe senescit ager.]