The Labouring Man That Tills The Fertile Soil
The labouring man, that tills the fertile soil
And reaps the harvest fruit, hath not in deed
The gain, but pain; and if for all his toil
He gets the straw, the lord will have the seed.
The manchet fine falls not unto his share,
On coarsest cheat his hungry stomach feeds;
The landlord doth possess the finest fare,
He pulls the flowers; the other plucks but weeds.
The mason poor, that builds the lordly halls,
Dwells not in them; they are for high degree;
His cottage is compact in paper walls,
And not with brick or stone as others be.
The idle drone, that labours not at all,
Sucks up the sweet of honey from the bee:
Who worketh most, to their share least doth fall;
With due desert reward will never be.
The swiftest hare unto the mastiff slow
Oft-times doth fall, to him as for a prey;
The greyhound thereby doth miss his game, we know,
For which he made such speedy haste away.
So he that takes the pain to pen the book,
Reaps not the gifts of goodly golden Muse,
But those gain that, who on the work shall look
And from the sour the sweet by skill doth choose.
For he that beats the bush the bird not gets,
But who sits still and holdeth fast the nets.
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