What destiny, drove my cross’d Fortune here?
By day I’me scoarch’d with heate, by night the grounds
Are cled with beasts; whose rage sends horrid sounds
Of dreadfull death: whence we to shunne their ire,
[VIII. 376.]Are forc’d to fright them, with bright Tara fire:
For if it were not, that they scarr’d at Light,
No man could walke, or rest, safe in the night.
Then next and nigh, the crawling Serpents lurke
Still under foote, some stung-swolne smart to worke;
Which moove the Sands like Seas, in seeking shade,