Riddle 11

My powerful first, thou standest in thy stall,
Many a man is held beneath thy thrall;
And men for thee will fortunes gladly spend,
And yet by man thou ’rt bound and boxed and penned.
He stamps upon thee, puts thee on the rack,
And markest thee with stripes across thy back.

My second, goodly joys thou canst convey,
Gladly we take thy round from day to day;
Made of coarse clay, and often underbred,
Dear to the heir, yet buried with the dead.

My whole, what honored titles thou hast borne,
Designed for use, thou also dost adorn;
Allowed to roam, yet kept within the bound,
By thine assistance oft the lost is found.