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.

Persistent work triumphs.

No day shall erase you from the memory of time

If one swain scorns you, you will soon find another.

Yield not to evils, but attack all the more boldly.

Each man is led by his own liking.

He like a rock in the sea unshaken stands his ground.