So sung the Poet in an Humble Strain

So sung the Poet in an Humble Strain
With Empty pockets and a Head in pain
Where the soft Clime enclin'd the Soul to rest
And Pastoral Images inspir'd the Breast!
Apollo listen'd from his heavenly Bow(er)
And in his Health restor'd express'd his power.
Pygmalion thus before the Paphian shrine
With trembling vows address'd the power divine,
Durst hardly make his hopeless wishes known,
And scarce a greater Miracle was shewn,
Returning Vigour glow'd in every Vein
And gay Ideas flutter in the Brain,
Back he returns to breathe his Native Air
And all his firm resolves are melted there.
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