’Tis not for those, whom gelid skies embrace, 250
And chilling fogs; whose perspiration feels
Such frequent bars from Eurus and the North;
’Tis not for those to cultivate a skin
Too soft; or teach the recremental fume
Too fast to crowd thro’ such precarious ways. 255
For thro’ the small arterial mouths, that pierce
In endless millions the close-woven skin,
The baser fluids in a constant stream
Escape, and viewless melt into the winds.