And half the mountains melt into the tide.
Tho’ thirst were ne’er so resolute, avoid 420
The sordid lake, and all such drowsy floods
As fill from Lethe Belgia’s slow canals;
(With rest corrupt, with vegetation green;
Squalid with generation, and the birth
Of little monsters;) till the power of fire 425
Has from profane embraces disengag’d
The violated lymph. The virgin stream
In boiling wastes its finer soul in air.