Oft on a Plat of rising ground,
I hear the far-off Curfeu sound
Over some wide-watered shoar,
Swinging slow with sullen roar:
Or if the Ayr will not permit,
Som still removèd place will fit,
Where glowing Embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom,
Far from all resort of mirth,
Save the Cricket on the hearth,