The Muses' Comforting

Meseems I scarce could live, but for the Muse,
My faithful mate who follows here and there
O'er hills, fields, woods; and charms away my care
With beauteous gifts, and all my woe subdues.

If I am sad, I know no other ruse
To conquer grief, but call my comrade rare,
My Clio; straight she comes, and greets me fair
And graciously, nor ever makes excuse.

Would the nine Sisters might each season please
To make my house with their fair gifts replete,
Which rust can never spoil, nor frost, nor fire!

Thyme blossoms not so sweet for honey-bees
As their fair gifts upon my mouth are sweet,
On which high minds may feed and never tire.