Ants prudent bite the Ends of hoarded Wheat,
Lest growing Seeds their future Hopes defeat;
And when they conscious scent the gath'ring Rains,
Draw down their windy Eggs, and pilfer'd Grains;
With Summer's Toil, and ready Viands fill
The deepest Caverns of their puny Hill;
There lie secure, and hug their treasur'd Goods,
And safe in labour'd Cells they mock the coming Floods.