Make a fire within; Fetch hither all my boxes in my closet. Death may usurp on nature many hours, And yet the fire of life kindle again The o’erpress’d spirits. I have heard Of an Egyptian that had nine hours lien dead, Who was by good appliance recovered. * * * * * the fire and cloths— The rough and woeful music that we have, Cause it to sound, ’beseech you. The viol once more; * * * * * * I pray you, give her air; This queen will live; nature awakes; a warmth Breathes out of her: She hath not been entranc’d About five hours. See how she ’gins to blow Into life’s flower again!
Hush, my gentle neighbors! Lend me your hands; to the next chamber bear her. Get linen; now this matter must be looked to, For her relapse is mortal. Come, come, And Æsculapius guide us! Act III., Sc. II.
Take thou this phial, being then in bed, And this distilled liquor drink thou off: When, presently, through all thy veins shall run A cold and drowsy humour, for no pulse Shall keep his native progress, but surcease, No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou liv’st; The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall, Like death, when he shuts up the day of life; Each part, depriv’d of supple government, Shall, stiff, and stark, and cold, appear like death: And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death Thou shalt continue two and forty hours, And then awake as from a pleasant sleep. Romeo and Juliet, Act IV., Sc. I.
Why does my blood thus muster to my heart, Making both it unable for itself, And dissposessing all my other parts Of necessary fitness? So play the foolish throngs with one that swoons; Come all to help him, and so stop the air By which he should revive. Measure for Measure, Act II., Sc. IV.
Many will swoon when they do look on blood. As You Like It, Act IV., Sc. III.
No damsel faints when rather closely press’d, But more caressing seems when most caress’d; Superfluous hartshorn, and reviving salts, Both banish’d by the sovereign cordial “waltz.” Byron—The Waltz.
Some attention has been paid to chlorosis:
Out, you green-sickness carrion! Out, you baggage, You tallow-face! Romeo and Juliet, Act III., Sc. V.
Pand. The pox upon her green sickness for me. Bawd. Faith, there’s no way to be rid on ’t, but by the way to the pox. Pericles, Act IV., Sc. VI.