living things with wings, and the strange forms that
Ocean carries beneath his marble surface. These particles
have a fiery glow, a heavenly nature, struggling against 15
the clogs of corrupting flesh, the dulness of limbs of clay
and bodies ready to die. Hence come their fears and
lusts, their joys and griefs: nor can they discern the
heavenly light, prisoned as they are in night and blind
dungeon walls. Nay, when life’s last ray has faded from 20
them, not even, then, poor wretches, are they wholly freed
from ill, freed from every plague of the flesh: those many