Ye female artizans, who grind the corn,
Indulge your slumbers all the live-long morn;
And let the cock, with impotent essay,
Recite his usual prologue to the day;
For Ceres now herself assistance lends,
And to the mills the green-hair'd Naiads sends.
See! on the summit buxomly they bound,
And with their gambols work the axle round.
True to th' impulsive waters, winds the wheel,
While four huge mill-stones crush the mouldring meal,
All-bounteous Ceres, as in days of yore,
Your toil remits, yet still affords her store.