But now the hours and seasons when to toil, From foreign themes recall my wandering song. Some labour fasting, or but slightly fed, To lull the grinding stomach’s hungry rage: Where nature feeds too corpulent a frame 340 ’Tis wisely done. For while the thirsty veins, Impatient of lean penury, devour The treasur’d oil, then is the happiest time To shake the lazy balsam from its cells. Now while the stomach from the full repast 345 Subsides; but ere returning hunger gnaws; Ye leaner habits give an hour to toil: And ye whom no luxuriancy of growth Oppresses yet, or threatens to oppress. But from the recent meal no labours please, 350 Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers Claim all the wandering spirits to a work Of strong and subtle toil, and great event; A work of time: and you may rue the day You hurried, with ill-seasoned exercise, 355 A half concocted chyle into the blood. The body overcharg’d with unctuous phlegm Much toil demands: The lean elastic less. While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins, No labours are too hard: By those you ’scape 360 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! 365 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 370 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 To shady walks and active rural sports 375 Invite. But, while the chilling dews descend, May nothing tempt you to the cold embrace Of humid skies: Tho’ ’tis no vulgar joy To trace the horrors of the solemn wood, While the soft evening saddens into night: 380 Tho’ the sweet poet of the vernal groves Melts all the night in strains of amorous woe.