Song.

Set by Mr. Curtes .

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.