There too he sculptured a broad fallow field Of soft rich mould, thrice ploughed, and over which Walked many a ploughman, guiding to and fro His steers, and when on their return they reached The border of the field the master came To meet them, placing in the hands of each A goblet of rich wine. Then turned they back Along the furrows, diligent to reach Their distant end. All dark behind the plough The ridges lay, a marvel to the sight, Like real furrows, though engraved in gold.