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For lo! Machaon is thy frequent guest,
Pleas'd with thy converse, with thy friendship blest:
The poor, the rich, consult without a fee
The sacred oracle of health in thee.
The mother sues thee, fill'd with just alarms,
To shield her boy, and to protect his charms;
The virgin sues, lest blemishes invade
Her lovely cheeks, and all her beauties fade.
The Gaul himself, though envious of our name,
Adores thy art, and celebrates thy fame;
The grateful nations one loud pæan raise,
And all the wond'ring world resounds thy praise.
But what, alas! avails the blooming boy,
His father's pride, his mother's only joy,—
