The Trees along the Coast,
Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms,
As if they plaind the North-winds harms,
And Youthful Verdure lost.
There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe,
Where Sun nere pierc't, nor Wind ere blew.
In it a Brooke doth fleet,
The Noise must guide thy Feet,
For there's no Light,
But all is Night,
And Darkness that you meet.