Hail, my sweet farm, where'er allow'd to stand,
Whether on Sabine, or on Tybur's land!
Those call thee Tybur's who would sooth my pride,
While some will bet thou'rt on the Sabine side;
But Sabine, or if rather Tybur's ground,
Still thy retreat with roseate health was crown'd;
Thy rural calm made all my moments gay,
And kindly chas'd my lab'ring cough away;
That lab'ring cough which, as I madly chose
The highest meats, from late intemp'rance rose:
For when I sate a guest at Sextius' board,
And his oration against Antium heard,
With base invectives, and coarse language fraught;
Then the vile cold, the teazing rheum I caught:
These for a time distemper'd all my frame;
Till to thy shades, o pleasant farm, I came!
Where basil lent its salutary aid,
And balmy nettles the disease allay'd:
I thank thee then, to health at length restor'd;
Relief, not punishment, thy haunts afford:
But; if again such wretched stuff I heed,
Let colds, let rheums attack my guilty head!
Nor mine alone: may Sextius also know
What evils from his frigid labours flow!
Vain, silly Sextius! who, whate'er he writes,
Still sends for me, and the dull work recites.