Page:The Art of Preserving Health - A Poem in Four Books.djvu/14

6 It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass Of all obscene, corrupt, offensive things. Much moisture hurts; but here a sordid bath, With oily rancor fraught, relaxes more The solid frame than simple moisture can. Besides, immur'd in many a sullen bay That never felt the freshness of the breeze, This slumbring deep remains, and ranker grows With sickly rest: and (tho' the lungs abhor To drink the dun fuliginous abyss) Did not the acid vigour of the mine, Roll'd from so many thundring chimneys, tame The putrid salts that overswarm the sky; This caustick venom would perhaps corrode Those tender cells that draw the vital air, In vain with all their unctuous rills bedew'd; Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn In countless pores o'er all the pervious skin, Rh