They oint their naked limbs with mothered oil; Or, from the founts where living sulphurs boil, They mix a med'cine to foment their limbs, With scum that on the molten silver swims; Fat pitch, and black bitumen, add to these, } Besides the waxen labour of the bees, } And hellebore, and squills deep-rooted in the seas. } Receipts abound; but, searching all thy store, The best is still at hand, to lance the sore, And cut the head; for, till the core be found, The secret vice is fed, and gathers ground, While, making fruitless moan, the shepherd stands, } And, when the lancing-knife requires his hands, } Vain help, with idle prayers, from heaven demands. } Deep in their bones when fevers fix their seat, And rack their limbs, and lick the vital heat, The ready cure to cool the raging pain Is underneath the foot to breathe a vein. This remedy the Scythian shepherds found: The inhabitants of Thracia's hilly ground, And Gelons, use it, when for drink and food They mix their crudled milk with horses' blood. But, where thou seest a single sheep remain In shades aloof, or couched upon the plain, Or listlessly to crop the tender grass, Or late to lag behind with truant pace; Revenge the crime, and take the traitor's head, Ere in the faultless flock the dire contagion spread. On winter seas we fewer storms behold, Than foul diseases that infect the fold. Nor do those ills on single bodies prey, } But oftener bring the nation to decay, } And sweep the present stock and future hope away. } A dire example of this truth appears, When, after such a length of rolling years, We see the naked Alps, and thin remains } Of scattered cots, and yet unpeopled plains, } Once filled with grazing flocks, the shepherds' happy reigns. } Here, from the vicious air and sickly skies, A plague did on the dumb creation rise: During the autumnal heats the infection grew, Tame cattle and the beasts of nature slew, Poisoning the standing lakes, and pools impure; Nor was the foodful grass in fields secure. Strange death! for, when the thirsty fire had drunk Their vital blood, and the dry nerves were shrunk, When the contracted limbs were cramped, even then A waterish humour swelled and oozed again, Converting into bane the kindly juice, Ordained by Nature for a better use. The victim ox, that was for altars prest, Trimmed with white ribbons, and with garlands drest, Sunk of himself, without the god's command, Preventing the slow sacrificer's hand. Or, by the holy butcher if he fell, The inspected entrails could no fates foretell; Nor, laid on altars, did pure flames arise; But clouds of smouldering smoke forbade the sacrifice. Scarcely the knife was reddened with his gore,