The liver is the lazaret of bile,

But very rarely executes its function,

For the first passion stays there such a while,

That all the rest creep in and form a junction,

Like knots of vipers on a dunghill's soil—[168]Rage, fear, hate, jealousy, revenge, compunction—

So that all mischiefs spring up from this entrail,

Like Earthquakes from the hidden fire called "central."