SHE now a warmer Clime explores,
To prove the Air of foreign Shores:
O! may the temp'rate Breezes bring
Salubrious Med'cines on their Wing:
Thou, PHOEBUS, too, propitious shine;
And (since the Pow'r of Physic's thine)
Send blooming Health on ev'ry Beam,
Dispel her Pains, and chear the Dame.
Else must my melancholy Strain,
In mournful Elegies, complain.
Ev'n now, too well, these Numbers show,
My drooping Fancy's damp'd with Woe:
Yet, tho' my Verse deserves no Praise,
Let no sour Critic damn my Lays;
Since OVID's Self but faintly sung,
When only Grief inspir'd his Tongue.