For the first passion stays there such a while,
That all the rest creep in and form a junction,
Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil—[168]
Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction—
So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,
Like Earthquakes from the hidden fire called "central."
CCXVI.
In the mean time, without proceeding more
In this anatomy, I've finished now
Two hundred and odd stanzas as before,[CG]