For that it does ferment is clear.
Witness the reverence all refuse
To old-established Wont and Use.
The Schoolmaster.
What moulders, in the mould’s its doom,
What rots must nourish what is fresh;
Their vitals canker and consume,
Let them cough up the imposthume,
Or to the grave with their dead flesh!
There’s ferment, yes; past fear or hope,