The gentle Air allow'd my claim;
And, more to chear my drooping frame,
She mix'd the balm of op'ning flowers;
Such as the bee, with chymic powers,
From Hybla's fragrant hill inhales,
Or scent Sabea's blooming vales.
But ah! the Nymphs that heal the pensive mind,
By prescripts more refin'd,
Neglect their votary's anxious moan:
Oh, how should They relieve? — the Muses all were flown.