Falsely you blame our barren rocks and plains,
Happy in freedom and laborious swains;
Our peasants chearful to the field repair,
And can enjoy the labours of the year;
Whilst yours, beneath some tree, with mournful eyes,
Sees for his haughty lord his harvests rise:
Then silent sighs; but stops his slavish breath:
He silent sighs: for should he speak, 'tis death.
Hence from our field the lazy grain we call,
Too much for want, for luxury too small:
Whilst all Campania's rich inviting soil
Scarce knows the plowshare, or the reaper's toil.