The functions labour: from this fatal fource
What woes defcend is never to be fung.

To take their numbers were to count the fands
That ride in whirlwind the parch'd Libyan air;
Or waves that, when the bluft'ring North em-
broils

The Baltic, thunder on the German fhore.
Subject not then, by foft emollient arts,
This grand expence, on which your fates depend,
To ev'ry caprice of the fky; nor thwart
The genius of your clime: for from the blood
Leaft fickle rife the recremental feams,
And leaft obnoxious to the ftyptic air,
Which breathe thro'ftraiter and more callous pores.
The temper'd Scythian hence half naked treads
His boundlefs fnows, nor rues th'inclement heaven:
And hence our painted ancestors defied
The Eaft; nor curs'd, like us, their fickle fky.
The body, moulded by the clime, endures
Th' equator heats or hyperborean frost:
Except, by habits foreign to its turn,
Unwife you counteract its forming pow'r.
Rude at the first, the winter fhecks you lefs
By long acquaintance: ftudy then your sky,
Form to its manners your obfequious frame,
And learn to fuffer what you cannot fhun.
Against the rigours of a damp cold heaven
To fortify their bodies, fome frequent
The gelid ciftern; and, where nought forbids,
I praife their dauntless heart: a frame fo ftec'd
Dreads not the cough, nor thofe ungenial blafts
That breathe the Tertian or fell Rheumatifin;
The nerves fo temper'd never quit their tore;
No chronic languors haunt fuch hardy breafts.
But all things have their bounds: and he who makes
By daily ule the kindeft regimen
Effential to his health, fhould never mix
With human kind, nor art nor trade pursue.
He not the fafe viciffitudes of life
Without fome fhock endures; ill-fitted he
To want the known, or bear unufual, things.
Befides, the pow'rful remedies of pain
(Since pain in fpite of all our care will come)
Should never with your profp'rous days of health
Grow too familiar: for by frequent ufe
The ftrongeft medicines lofe their healing pow'r,
And ev'n the fureft poifons theirs to kill.

Let those who from the frozen Arctos reach
Parch'd Mauritania, or the fultry weft,
Or the wide flood thro' rich Indoftan roll'd,
Plunge thrice a day, and in the tepid wave
Untwift their ftubborn pores; that full and free
Th' evaporation thro' the foften'd skin
May bear proportion to the fwelling blood:
So thall they cape the fever's rapid flames,
So feel untainted the hot breath of hell.
With us, the man of no complaint demands
The warm ablution, juft enough to clear
The fluices of the fkin, enough to keep
The body facred from indecent foil.
Still to be pure, ev'n did it not conduce

(As much it does) to health, were greatly worth

Your daily pains. 'Tis this adorns the rich;

The want of this is Poverty's worst woe;

With this external virtue age maintains
A decent grace; without it, youth and charms
Are loathfome. This the venal Graces know;
So doubtless do your wives: for married fires,
As well as lovers, ftill pretend to tafte;
Nor is it lefs (all prudent wives can tell)
To lofe a hufband's than a lover's heart.

But now the hours and feafons when to toil
From foreign themes recall my wand ring fong.
Some labour fafting, or but flightly fed,
To lull the grinding ftomach's hungry rage.
Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame,
'Tis wifely done: for while the thirsty veins,
Impatient of lean penury, devour
The treafur'd oil, then is the happiest time
To thake the lazy balfam from its cells.
Now while the ftomach from the full repaft
Subfides, but ere returning hunger gnaws,
Ye leaner habits, give an hour to tcil;
And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth
Oppreffes yet, or threatens to opprefs.
But from the recent meal no labours please,
Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial pow'rs
Claim all the wand'ring fpirits to a work
Of ftrong and fubtle toil and great event,
A work of time; and you may rue the day
You hurried, with untimely exercise,
A half-concocted chyle into the blood.
The body overcharg'd with unctuous phlegm
Much toil demands; the lean elaftic lefs.
While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins,
No labours are too hard: by thofe you 'scape
The flow difeafes of the torpid year,
Endlefs to name; to one of which alone,
To that which tears the nerves, the toil of flaves
Is pleafure. Oh, from such inhuman pains
May all be free who merit not the wheel!
But from the burning Lion when the fun
Pours down his fultry wrath; now while the blood
Too much already maddens in the veins,
And all the finer fluids thro' the skin
Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade
Reclin'd, or faunt'ring in the lofty grove,
No needlefs flight occafion fhould engage
To pant and fweat beneath the fiery noon.
Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve
To fhady walks and active rural sports
Invite. But, while the chilling dews defcend,
May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace
Of humid fkies; tho' 'tis no vulgar joy
To trace the horrors of the folemn wood
While the foft ev'ning faddens into night;
Tho' the fweet Poet of the vernal groves
Melts all the night in ftrains of am'rous woe.

The fhades defcend, and midnight o'er the world
Expands her fable wings: great Nature droops,
Thro' all her works. Now happy he whofe to
Has o'er his languid pow'rlefs limbs diffus'd
A pleafing laffitude: he not in vain
Invokes the gentle Deity of dreams.
His pow'rs the most voluptuously diffolve
In foft repofe: on him the balmy dews
Of fleep with double nutriment defcend.
But would you sweetly wafte the blank of night

In deep oblivion; or on Fancy's wings
Vifit the paradife of happy dreams,
And waken cheerful as the lively morn;
Opprefs not nature finking down to rest
With feafts too late, too folid, or too full;
But be the firft concoction half matur'd
Ere you to mighty indolence refign
Your paffive faculties. He from the toils
And trouble of the day to heavier toil
Retires, whom trembling from the tow'r that rocks
Amid the clouds, or Calpe's hideous height,
The bufy demons hurl, or in the main
O'erwhelm, or bury struggling under ground.
Not all a monarch's luxury the woes
Can counterpoife of that moft wretched ́man,
Whofe nights are shaken with the frantic fits
Of wild Oreftes; whofe delirious brain,
Stung by the Furies, works with poifon'd thought;
While pale and monftrous panting fhocks the foul,
And mangled confcioufnefs bemoans itself
For ever torn, and chaos floating round.
What dreams prefage, what dangers thefe or thofe
Portend to fanity, tho' prudent feers
Reveal'd of old, and men of deathlefs fame,
We would not to the fuperftitious mind
Suggeft new throbs, new vanities of fear:
'Tis ours to teach you from the peaceful night
To banish omens and all reftlefs wees.

In study fome protract the filent hours,
Which others confecrate to mirth and wine;
And fleep till noon, and hardly live till night.
But furely this redeems not from the fhades
One hour of life. Nor does it nought avail
What feafon you to drowfy Morpheus give
Of th' ever-varying circle of the day;
Or whether, thro' the tedious winter gloom,
You tempt the midnight or the morning damps.
The body, fresh and vigorous from repofe,
Defies the early fogs; but, by the toils
Of wakeful day exhaufted and unftrung,
Weakly refifts the night's unwholefome breath:
The grand difcharge, th' effufion of the skin,
Slowly impair'd, the languid maladies
Creep on, and thro' the fick'ning functions steal.
So, when the chilling Eaft invades the spring,
The delicate Narciffus pines away
In hectic languor, and a flow disease
Taints all the family of flow'rs, condemn'd
To cruel heavens. But why, already prone
To fade, fhould beauty cherish its own bane?
Oh fhame! oh pity! nipt with pale Quadrille
And midnight cares, the bloom of Albion dies!
By toil fubdued, the warrior and the hind
Sleep faft and deep: their active functions foon
With generous ftreams the fubtle tubes fupply;
And foon the tonic irritable nerves

Feel the fresh impulfe, and awake the foul.
The fons of Indolence with long repofe
Grow torpid; and, with floweft Lethe drunk,
Feebly and ling'ringly return to life,
Blunt ev'ry fenfe, and pow'rlefs ev'ry limb.
Ye prone to fleep (whom fleeping moft annoys)
On the hard matrafs or elaftic couch
Extend your limbs, and wean yourfelves from floth;

Nor grudge the lean projector, of dry brain
And fpringy nerves, the blandifhments of down;
Nor envy while the buried Bacchanal
Exhales his furfeit in prolixer dreams.

He without riot, in the balmy feast
Of life, the wants of nature has fupplied,
Who rifes cool, ferene, and full of foul.
But pliant nature more or lefs demands
As cuftom forms her; and all fudden change
She hates of habit, ev'n from bad to good.
If faults in life, or new emergencies,
From habits urge you by long time confirm'd,
Slow may the change arrive, and stage by stage;
Slow as the fhadow o'er the dial moves,
Slow as the ftealing progrefs of the year.

Obferve the circling year. How unperceiv'd'
Her feafons change! Behold, by flow degrees,
Stern Winter tam'd into a ruder Spring;
The ripen'd Spring a milder Summer glows;
Departing Summer fheds Pomona's store;
And aged Autumn brews the Winter storm.
Slow as they come, thefe changes come not void
Of mortal fhocks: the cold and torrid reigns,
The two great periods of th' important year,
Are in their firft approaches feldom fafe:
Funereal Autumn all the fickly dread,
And the black fates deform the lovely Spring.
He well advis'd, who taught our wifer fires
Early to borrow Mufcovy's warm spoils,
Ere the first froft has touch'd the tender blade;
And late refign them, tho' the wanton Spring
Should deck her charms with all her fifter's rays.
For while the effluence of the skin maintains
Its native measure, the pleuritic Spring
Glides harmless by; and Autumn, fick to death
With fallow quartans, no contagion breathes.
I in prophetic numbers could unfold
The omens of the year: what feasons teem
With what difeafes; what the humid South
Prepares, and what the Demon of the East:
But you perhaps refufe the tedious fong.
Befides, whatever plagues, in heat, or cold,
Or drought, or moisture dwell, they hurt not you,
Skill'd to correct the vices of the fky,
And taught already how to each extreme
To bend your life. But should the public bane
Infect you; or fome trefpafs of your own,
Or flaw of nature, hint mortality:
Soon as a not unpleafing horror glides
Along the fpine, thro' all your torpid limbs ;
When first the head throbs, or the ftomach feels
A fickly load, a weary pain the loins,
Be Celfus call'd: the fates come rushing on;
The rapid fates admit of no delay.
While wilful you, and fatally fecure,
Expect to-morrow's more aufpicious fun,
The growing peft, whofe infancy was weak
And eafy vanquifh'd, with triumphant fway
O'erpow'rs your life. For want of timely care,
Millions have died of medicable wounds.

Ah! in what perils is vain life engag'di
What flight neglects, what trivial faults, deftroy
The hardieft frame! Of indolence, of toil,
We die; of want, of fuperfluity:

There is, they fay (and I believe there is),
A fpark within us of th' immortal fire,
That animates and moulds the groffer frame;
And, when the body finks, efcapes to heaven,
Its native feat, and mixes with the Gods.
Meanwhile this heavenly particle pervades
The mortal elements; in ev'ry nerve
It thrills with pleasure, or grows mad with pain.
And, in its fecret conclave, as it feels
The body's woes and joys, this ruling pow'r
Wields at its will the dull material world,
And is the body's health or malady.

By its own toil the grofs corporeal frame
Fatigues, extenuates, or deftroys itself.
Nor lefs the labours of the mind corrode
The folid fabric: for by fubtle parts,
And viewiefs atoms, fecret Nature moves
The mighty wheels of this stupendous world.
By fubtle fluids pour'd thro' fubtle tubes
The natʼral, vital, functions are perform'd.
By thefe the ftubborn aliments are tam'd;
The toiling heart distributes life and strength;
Thele the itill-crumbling frame rebuild, and thefe
Are loft in thinking, and diffolve in air.

But 'tis not Thought (for still the foul's em-
ploy'd),

'Tis painful thinking, that corrodes our clay.
All day the vacant eye without fatigue
Strays o'er the heaven and earth; but long intent
On microscopic arts its vigour fails.
Juft fo the mind, with various thought amus'd,
Nor aches itfelf, nor gives the body pain.
But anxious Study, Difcontent, and Care,
Love without hope, and Hate without revenge,
And Fear, and Jealoufy, fatigue the foul,
Engrofs the fubtle minifters of life,

And spoil the lab'ring functions of their share.
Hence the lean gloom that Melancholy wears,
The Lover's palenefs, and the fallow hue
Of Envy, Jealoufy, the meagre ftare
Of fore Revenge, the canker'd body hence
Betrays each fretful motion of the mind.

[day

The ftrong-built pedant, who both night and
Feeds on the coarfeft fare the schools bestow,
And crudely fattens at grofs Burman's stall;
O'erwhelm'd with phlegm lies in a dropfy drown'd,
Or finks in lethargy before his time.
With youthful studies you, and arts that pleafe,
Employ your mind; amufe, but not fatigue.
Peace to each drowsy metaphyfic fage!
And ever may all heavy fyftems reft!
Yet fome there are, ev'n of elastic parts,
Whom ftrong and obftinate ambition leads
Thro' all the rugged roads of barren lore,
And gives to relish what their gen'rous taste
Would elfe refufe. But may nor thirft of fame,
Nor love of knowledge, urge you to fatigue
With conftant drudgery the lib'ral foul.
Toy with your books: and, as the various fits
Of humour feize you, from Philofophy
To Fable fhift, from ferious Antonine
To Rabelais' ravings, and from prose to song.
While reading pleases, but no longer, read;
And read aloud refounding Homer's strain,

And wield the thunder of Demofthenes.
The cheft fo exercis'd improves its firength;
And quick vibrations thro' the bowels drive
The restless blood, which in unactive days
Would loiter elfe thro' unelastic tubes.
Deem it not trifling while I recommend
What pofture fuits: to ftand and fit by turns,
As nature prompts, is beft. But o'er your leaves
To lean for ever, cramps the vital parts,
And robs the fine machinery of its play.

'Tis the great art of life to manage well
The reftlefs mind. For ever on pursuit
Of knowledge bent, it farves the groffer pow'rs
Quite unemploy'd, against its own repole
It turns its fatal edge, and harper pangs
Than what the body knows embitter life.
Chiefly where Solitude, fad nurfe of Care,
To fickly mufing gives the penfive mind,
There Madness enters; and the dim-eyed Fiend,
Sour Melancholy, night and day provokes
Her own eternal wound. The fun grows pale;
A mournful vifionary light o'eripreads
The cheerful face of nature; earth becomes
A dreary defert, and heaven frowns above.
Then various fhapes of curs'd illufion rife:
Whate'er the wretched fears, creating Fear
Forms out of nothing; and with monsters teems
Unknown in hell. The proftrate foul beneath
A load of huge imagination heaves;
And all the horrors that the murd'rer feels
With anxious flutt'rings wake the guiltless breaft.
Such phantoms Pride in folitary fcenes,
Or Fear, on delicate Self-love creates.
From other cares abfolv'd, the bufy mind
Finds in yourself a theme to pore upon;
It finds you miferable, or makes you so.
For while yourself you anxiously explore,
Timorous Self-love, with fick 'ning Fancy's aid,
Prefents the danger that you dread the most,
And ever galls you in your tender part.
Hence fome for love, and fome for jealoufy,
For grim religion fome, and fome for pride,
Have loft their reafon: fome, for fear of want,
Want all their lives; and others, ev'ry day,
For fear of dying, fuffer worfe than death.
Ah! from your bofoms banish, if you can,
Thofe fatal guests; and first the Demon Fear,
That trembles at impoffible events,
Left aged Atlas fhould refign his load,
And heaven's eternal battlements rufh down.
Is there an evil worfe than Fear itself?
And what avails it that indulgent Heaven
From mortal eyes has wrapt the woes to come,
If we, ingenious to torment ourselves,
Grow pale at hideous fictions of our own?
Enjoy the prefent; nor with needlef's cares
Of what may fpring from blind Misfortune's
womb,

Appal the fureft hour that life beftows.
Serene, and mafter of yourself, prepare
For what may come, and leave the reft to Heaven.
Oft from the body, by long ails miftun'd,
Thefe evils fprung, the most important health,
That of the mind, destroy; and when the mind
Hh 3

They