So sung the poet in a humble strain, 
With empty pockets, and a head in pain, 
Where the soft clime inclin'd the soul to rest, 
And past'ral images inspir'd the breast. 
Apollo listen'd from his heav'nly bower, 
And, in his health restor'd, express'd his power. 
Pygmalion thus before the Paphian shrine, 
With trembling vows address'd the pow'r divine; 
Durst hardly make his hopeless wishes known, 
And scarce a greater miracle was shown -- 
Returning vigour glow'd in every vein, 
And gay ideas flutter'd in the brain; 
Back he returns to breathe his native air, 
And all his first resolves are melted there!