The sweats o’erflow’d; but in a clammy tide: 570
Now free and copious, now restrain’d and slow;
Of tinctures various, as the temperature
Had mix’d the blood; and rank with fetid steams:
As if the pent-up humors by delay
Were grown more fell, more putrid, and malign. 575
Here lay their hopes (tho’ little hope remain’d)
With full effusion of perpetual sweats
To drive the venom out. And here the fates
Were kind, that long they linger’d not in pain.