Page:The Art of Preserving Health - A Poem in Four Books.djvu/91

B. III. 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! 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 thro' the skin Explore their flight; me, near the cool cascade Reclin'd, or sauntring in the lofty grove, No needless slight occasion should engage To pant and sweat beneath the fiery noon. Now the fresh morn alone and mellow eve 375 [sic] To shady walks and active rural sports Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend, May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace Of humid skies: Tho' 'tis no vulgar joy Rh