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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.
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