The sounding coveys urge their labouring flight: The gun's unerring thunder; and there are 165 Whom still the meed* of the green archer charms. Fatigues you soon, and scarce improves your limbs. As beauty still has blemish; and the mind The most accomplish'd its imperfect side; Few bodies are there of that happy mould But some one part is weaker than the rest: The legs, perhaps, or arms refuse their load, Or the chest labours. These assidiously, 170 175 But gently, in their proper arts employ'd, To which they were not born. But weaker parts 180 Begin with gentle toils; and, as your nerves, 185 The race grows warmer,' and the tempest swells; 190 And the thick thunder hurries o'er the plain. When all at once from indolence to toil You spring, the fibres by the hasty shock Are tir'd and crack'd, before their unctuous coats, Compress'd, can pour the lubricating balm. 195 Besides, collected in the passive veins, The purple mass a sudden torrent rolls, O'erpowers the heart, and deluges the lungs With dangerous inundation: oft the source Of fatal woes; a cough that foams with blood, 201 Or the slow minings of the hectic fire. *This word is much used by some of the old English poets, and signifies reward or prize. †The inflammation of the lungs. Th' athletic Fool, to whom what heav'n deny'd Of soul is well compensated in limbs, Oft from his rage, or brainless frolic, feels 205 His vegetation and brute force decay. 210 Is earn'd; and (where your habit is not prone Where lurk the shelves, and where the whirlpools boil, 215 220 225 230 He knows enough, the mariner, who knows What signs portend the storm: to subtler minds 235 Whence neither oar nor sail can stem; and why The roughening deep expects the storm, as sure 240 In antient times, when Rome with Athens vied For polish'd luxury and useful arts; All hot and reeking from the Olympic strife, And warm Palestra, in the tepid bath 243 Soft oils bedew'd them, with the grateful pow'rs Not much invites us to such arts as these. Too fast to crowd through such precarious ways. 'For thro' the small arterial mouths, that pierce In endless millions the close-woven skin, The baser fluids in a constant stream 250 256 260 With ease and pleasure move; but this restrain'd 265 The functions labour, from this fatal source To take their numbers were to count the sands That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air; Or waves that, when the blustering North embroils 271 Subject not then by soft emollient arts This grand expence, on which your fates depend, To every caprice of the sky; nor thwart The genius of your clime: for from the blood 275 Least fickle rise the recremental steams, And least obnoxious to the styptic air, Which breathe thro' straiter and more callous pores. His boundless snows, nor rues th' inclement heaven; And hence our painted ancestors defied 281 The East: nor curs'd, like us, their fickle sky. The body, moulded by the clime, endures The gelid cistern; and, where nought forbids, 285 290 I praise their dauntless heart: A frame so steel'd But all things have their bounds: and he who makes, 300 Essential to his health, should never mix Without some shock endures; ill-fitted he 305 Should never with your prosperous days of health Grow too familiar: for by frequent use The strongest medicines lose their healing power, And even the surest poisons theirs to kill. 311 Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach 315 320 Still to be pure, even did it not conduce 325 (As much it does) to health, were greatly worth Your daily pains. 'Tis this adorns the rich; T'he want of this is Poverty's worst woe; With this external virtue age maintains 330 As well as lovers, still pretend to taste; 335 But now the hours and seasons when to toil From foreign themes recall my wandering song. Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed, The treasur'd oil, then is the happiest time 340 $45 But from the recent meal no labours please, 350 Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers Claim all the wandering spirits to a work Of strong and subtle toil, and great event: A work of time: and you may rue the day The body overcharg'd with unctuous phlegm 356 While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins, No labours are too hard: by those you 'scape 360 The slow diseases of the torpid year; Endless to name; to one of which alone, To that which tears the nerves, the toil of slaves Is pleasure; Oh! from such inhuman pains May all be free who merit not the wheel: 365 But from the burning Lion when the sun Pours down his sultry wrath; now while the blood Too much already maddens in the veins, And all the finer fluids through the skin 370 Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade 375 380 |