Which Philosophy scorns, and no maiden should hear,
Convuls'd with disdain, I soon alter'd their note,
For I shut up the principal valve of my throat;
Till the smoke, in vast volumes, pour'd into the room,
And enwrapp'd the loud mob in a horrible gloom,
More fœtid than Vulcan inhal'd with his breath;
More thick than e'er pass'd o'er the threshold of Death;
More choking than Cyclops drank in at their forge;
More rank than the reptile of Thebes could disgorge:
As they gasp'd, it rush'd down their intestines, and clogg'd 'em,