You brace your nerves, and spur the lagging blood.
The fat’ning clime let all the sons of ease
Avoid; if indolence would wish to live. 220
Go, yawn and loiter out the long slow year
In fairer skies. If droughty regions parch
The skin and lungs, and bake the thick’ning blood;
Deep in the waving forest chuse your seat,
Where fuming trees refresh the thirsty air; 225
And wake the fountains from their secret beds,
And into lakes dilate the running stream.