62
The ART of
B. III.
To you, ye delicate, I write; for you
I tame my youth to philosophic cares,
10And grow still paler by the midnight lamps.
Not to debilitate with timorous rules
A hardy frame; nor needlesly to brave
Unglorious dangers, proud of mortal strength;
Is all the lesson that in wholsome years
15Concerns the strong. His care were ill bestow'd
Who would with warm effeminacy nurse
The thriving oak, which on the mountain's brow
Bears all the blasts that sweep the wintry heav'n.
Behold the labourer of the glebe, who toils
20In dust, in rain, in cold and sultry skies:
Save but the grain from mildews and the flood.
Nought anxious he what sickly stars ascend.
He knows no laws by Esculapius given;
He studies none. Yet him nor midnight fogs
Infest,
