Then comes fatigue. The Sisters nine may please
And promise poets happiness and ease;
But e'en amidst those trees, that cooling shade,
That calm retreat for them expressly made,
No rest they find—there rich effusions flow
In all the measures bardic numbers know:
Thus on their way in endless toil they move,
And spend their strength in labours that they love.
Beneath the trees the bards the muses haunt,
And with incessant toil are seen to pant;