Even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are formed.—Childe Harold.
Yet monsters from thy large increase we find,
Engendered in the slime thou leav’st behind.—Dryden: The Medal.
I am not altogether of such clay
As rots into the souls of those whom I survey.—Childe Harold.
The gods, a kindness I with thanks repay,
Had formed me of another sort of clay.—Churchill.