We pitch’t our Tents in ridges and in Furrows,
And there encamp’t, fearing the Almighty’s Arrows.
But O, Alas! what did this avail;
Our men (ere long) began to droop and quail.
Our lodgings cold, and some not us’d thereto,
Fell sick and dy’d, and made no more adoe.
At length the Plague amongst us ’gan to spread,
When ev’ry morning some were found stark dead.
Down to another Field the sick were t’ane;
But few went down, that e’er came up again.