The task despatch’d, away the fury flies From plenteous regions, and from ripening skies; To her old barren north she wings her speed, And cottages distress’d with pinching need.

Still slumbers Erisichthon’s senses drown, And sooth his fancy with their softest down. He dreams of viands delicate to eat, And revels on imaginary meat. Chews with his working mouth, but chews in vain, And tires his grinding teeth with fruitless pain; Deludes his throat with visionary fare, Feasts on the wind, and banquets on the air.

The morning came, the night and slumbers pass’d, But still the furious pangs of hunger last; The cank’rous rage still gnaws with griping pains, Stings in his throat, and in his bowels reigns.