Now Death began her sword to whet,
Not all the _Cyclops_ sweat,
Nor _Vulcaus_ mighty Anvils could prepare
Weapons enough for her,
No weapon large enough but all the Air;
Men felt the heat within him rage,
And hop’d the Air would it asswage,
Call’d for its help, but th’ Air did them deceive,
And aggravate the ills it should relieve.
The Air no more was Vital now,
But did a mortal poyson grow;
The Lungs which us’d to fann the heart,
Onely now serv’d to fire each part,
What should refresh, increas’d the smart,
And now their very breath,
The chiefest sign of life, turn’d the cause of death.