Intestine heats begin the civil war,
And flushings first the latent flame declare,
And fiery breath, which seem’d like burning air.
Their black dry tongues are swell’d and scarcely move,
And short thick sighs from panting lungs evolve:
They gasp for air, with vainest hopes to sate
Their raging flames, but that augments their heat.
No bed, no covering, can the sicken’d bear—
All on the ground exposed to open air,
They lie, and hope to find a pleasing coolness there.