But from the recent meal no labours please, 350
Of limbs or mind. For now the cordial powers
Claim all the wandering spirits to a work
Of strong and subtle toil, and great event;
A work of time: and you may rue the day
You hurried, with ill-seasoned exercise, 355
A half concocted chyle into the blood.
The body overcharg’d with unctuous phlegm
Much toil demands: The lean elastic less.
While winter chills the blood, and binds the veins,