The lion bursts, and every fiend that roams 320
Th’ affrighted wilderness. The mountain herd,
Adust and dry, no sweet repast affords;
Nor does the tepid main such kinds produce,
So perfect, so delicious, as the stores
Of icy Zembla. Rashly where the blood 325
Brews feverish frays; where scarce the tubes sustain
Its tumid fervor and tempestuous course;
Kind nature tempts not to such gifts as these.
But here in livid ripeness melts the grape;