Hail, ye who share the stern Minerva's power; Who arm the hand of Liberty for war, And give to the renown'd Britannic name To awe contending monarchs: yet benign, Yet mild of nature, to the works of peace More prone, and lenient of the many ills 170 Which wait on human life. Your gentle aid Hygeia well can witness; she who saves, From poisonous dates and cups of pleasing bane, The wretch, devoted to the entangling snares Of Bacchus and of Comus. Him she leads To Cynthia's lonely haunts. To spread the toils, To beat the coverts, with the jovial horn At dawn of day to summon the loud hounds, She calls the lingering sluggard from his dreams, And where his breast may drink the mountain breeze, 180 And where the fervour of the sunny vale May beat upon his brow, through devious paths Beckons his rapid courser. Nor when ease, Cool ease and welcome slumbers have becalm'd His eager bosom, does the queen of health Her pleasing care withhold. His decent board She guards, presiding, and the frugal powers With joy sedate leads in; and while the brown Ennaean dame with Pan presents her stores, While changing still, and comely in the change, 190 Vertumnus and the Hours before him spread The garden's banquet, you to crown his feast, To crown his feast, O Naiads, you the fair Hygeia calls; and from your shelving seats, And groves of poplar, plenteous cups ye bring, To slake his veins, till soon a purer tide Flows down those loaded channels, washeth off The dregs of luxury, the lurking seeds Of crude disease, and through the abodes of life Sends vigour, sends repose. Hail, Naiads, hail! 200 Who give to labour, health; to stooping age, The joys which youth had squander'd. Oft your urns Will I invoke; and frequent in your praise, Abash the frantic thyrsus [Z] with my song.