Roll’d from so many thundring chimneys, tame
The putrid salts that overswarm the sky;
This caustick venom would perhaps corrode 90
Those tender cells that draw the vital air,
In vain with all their unctuous rills bedew’d;
Or by the drunken venous tubes, that yawn
In countless pores o’er all the pervious skin,
Imbib’d, would poison the balsamic blood, 95
And rouse the heart to every fever’s rage.
While yet you breathe, away! the rural wilds