Their nerves by piercing Boreas brac’d,
And summer’s languor’s all eras’d;
They then, attendant at our side,
Through every scene of pleasure glide;
Admire our dress, our beauty more,
And (as in duty bound) adore.
Since such delights I tasted last,
Near eight insipid months have past;
Each circling hour a dreary void,
Despis’d, neglected, unenjoy’d: