His purer mansion nor contagious years
Shall reach, nor deadly putrid airs annoy.
But may no fogs, from lake or fenny plain, 310
Involve my hill. And wheresoe’er you build;
Whether on sun-burnt Epsom, or the plains
Wash’d by the silent Lee; in Chelsea low,
Or high Blackheath with wintry winds assail’d;
Dry be your house: but airy more than warm. 315
Else every breath of ruder wind will strike
Your tender body thro’ with rapid pains;