Heark! Oh heark! you guilty trees, In whose gloomy galleries Was the cruell'st murder done, That e're yet eclipst the sunne. Be then henceforth in your twigges Blasted, e're you sprout to sprigges; Feele no season of the yeere, But what shaves off all your haire, Nor carve any from your wombes Ought but coffins and their tombes.