We die; of want, of superfluity. 520
The all-surrounding heaven, the vital air,
Is big with death. And, tho’ the putrid South
Be shut; tho’ no convulsive agony
Shake, from the deep foundations of the world,
Th’ imprisoned plagues; a secret venom oft 525
Corrupts the air, the water, and the land.
What livid deaths has sad Byzantium seen!
How oft has Cairo, with a mother’s woe,
Wept o’er her slaughter’d sons, and lonely streets!