But when it hath been scorch'd, and pierced, and riven,
Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye
Pours forth at last the heart's blood turn'd to tears,
Which make the English climate of our years.
The liver is the lazaret of bile,
But very rarely executes its function,
For the firs passion stays there such a while,
That all the rest creep in and form a junction,
Life knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil,—