For he turf, stone, and trunk, and shoot, and lop, Cast without cease into the beauteous source;
Till, turbid from the bottom to the top, Never again was clear the troubled course.
At length, for lack of breath, compelled to stop, (When he is bathed in sweat, and wasted force, Serves not his fury more) he falls, and lies Upon the mead, and, gazing upward, sighs.
