And volatile corruption, from the dead,
The dying, sickning, and the living world
Exhal’d, to sully heaven’s transparent dome 70
With dim mortality. It is not air
That from a thousand lungs reeks back to thine,
Sated with exhalations rank and fell,
The spoil of dunghills, and the putrid thaw
Of nature; when from shape and texture she 75
Relapses into fighting elements:
It is not air, but floats a nauseous mass