III.
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.