The vigour of my mind impair;
If forc’d by toil from thee to rove,
’Till wearied limbs forget to move,
At night, reclin’d upon thy breast,
Thy converse lulls my soul to rest.
If sickness her distemper’d brood
Let loose,—to burn, or freeze my blood,
Thy tender vigilance and care,
My feeble frame can soon repair.
When in some doubtful maze I stray,