Be gone, ye Sylvan trippers of the green;
Fly after night, and overtake the moon.
[Here the Dancers, Singers, and Syrens vanish.
This goodly tree seems queen of all the grove.
The ringlets round her trunk declare her guilty
Of many midnight-sabbaths revelled here.
Her will I first attempt.
[Arthur strikes at the Tree, and cuts it; Blood spouts out of it; a groan follows, then a shriek.
Good heavens, what monstrous prodigies are these!
Blood follows from my blow; the wounded rind