Chapter 39 No.39

Limp snake, that writhest in the snow,

Twisting and turning here and there

To find some ease from the tormenting cold,

If the congealing ice could know thy pain,

Or had the sense to feel thy smart,

And thou couldst find a voice for thy complaint,

I do believe thy argument would make it pitiful.

I with eternal fire am scourged,