Foul, black as ink, and fetid, shocks the senses all.
These dash together; now this, now that, uppermost;
Their waves a turmoil make, as though by tempest tost.
That show of fierce collision’s made by matter’s form;
In truth, the spirits ’tis that compacts make, or storm.335
When gentle waves, in friendship’s reign, roll gracefully,
Contention quits each breast, all goes on merrily.
With rough war’s hideous billows, (mark the altered scene!)
All love is straight renounced; dire hate’s to supervene.
Affection coaxes rancour to subside, appeased;