Were under our foes' walls, and meadow mists
From heaven and earth still left us wringing wet,
A constant mischief to our garments, making
Our hair as shaggy as the beasts'.[[314]] And if
One spoke of winter frosts that killed the birds,
By Ida's snow-storms made intolerable,[[315]]
Or heat, when Ocean in its noontide couch
Windless reclined and slept without a wave....
But why lament o'er this? Our toil is past;
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