To Giovanni Salzilli, a Roman Poet, in his Illness. Scazons.[1]

My halting Muse, that dragg'st by choice along     Thy slow, slow step, in melancholy song!     And lik'st that pace expressive of thy cares     Not less than Diopeia's[2] sprightlier airs     When in the dance she beats with measur'd tread     Heav'n's floor in front of Juno's golden bed,     Salute Salsillus, who to verse divine     Prefers, with partial love, such lays as mine.     Thus writes that Milton then, who wafted o'er     From his own nest on Albion's stormy shore     Where Eurus, fiercest of th'Aeolian band,     Sweeps with ungovern'd rage the blasted land,     Of late to more serene Ausonia came     To view her cities of illustrious name,     To prove, himself a witness of the truth,     How wise her elders, and how learn'd her Youth.     Much good, Salsillus! and a body free     From all disease, that Milton asks for thee,     Who now endur'st the languor, and the pains     That bile inflicts diffus'd through all thy veins,     Relentless malady! not mov'd to spare     By thy sweet Roman voice, and Lesbian air!             Health, Hebe's sister, sent us from the skies,     And thou, Apollo, whom all sickness flies,     Pythius, or Paean, or what name divine     Soe'er thou chuse, haste, heal a priest of thine!     Ye groves of Faunus, and ye hills that melt     With vinous dews, where meek Evander[3] dwelt!     If aught salubrious in your confines grow,     Strive which shall soonest heal your poet's woe,     That, render'd to the Muse he loves, again     He may enchant the meadows with his strain.     Numa, reclin'd in everlasting ease     Amid the shade of dark embow'ring trees,     Viewing with eyes of unabated fire     His loved Aegeria, shall that strain admire:     So sooth'd, the tumid Tiber shall revere     The tombs of kings, nor desolate the year,     Shall curb his waters with a friendly rein,     And guide them harmless till they meet the main.