Provokes to keener toils than sultry droughts
Allow. But rarely we such skies blaspheme.
Steep’d in continual rains, or with raw fogs 250
Bedew’d, our seasons droop; incumbent still
A ponderous heaven o’erwhelms the sinking soul.
Lab’ring with storms in heapy mountains rise
Th’ imbattled clouds, as if the Stygian shades
Had left the dungeon of eternal night, 255
Till black with thunder all the south descends.
Scarce in a showerless day the heavens indulge