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.]

He was a very inferior farmer when he first begun . . . and he is
now fast rising read more

He was a very inferior farmer when he first begun . . . and he is
now fast rising from affluence to poverty.

Cultivators of the earth are the most valuable citizens. They are the most vigorous, the most independant, the most virtuous, read more

Cultivators of the earth are the most valuable citizens. They are the most vigorous, the most independant, the most virtuous, and they are tied to their country and wedded to it’s liberty and interests by the most lasting bands

The first farmer was the first man, and all historic nobility
rests on possession and use of land.

The first farmer was the first man, and all historic nobility
rests on possession and use of land.

Agriculture is best, enterprise is acceptable, but avoid being on a fixed wage.

Agriculture is best, enterprise is acceptable, but avoid being on a fixed wage.

The life of the husbandman,--a life led by the bounty of earth
and sweetened by the airs of heaven.

The life of the husbandman,--a life led by the bounty of earth
and sweetened by the airs of heaven.

Our fathers used to say that the master's eye was the best
fertilizer.
[Lat., Majores fertilissium is agro read more

Our fathers used to say that the master's eye was the best
fertilizer.
[Lat., Majores fertilissium is agro oculum domini esse dixerunt.]

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.