XLIV.

The house is hers'd about with a black wood, _hearsed_ Which nods with many a heavy-headed tree: Each flowers a pregnant poyson, try'd and good, Each herbe a plague. The wind's sighes timed bee By a black fount, which weeps into a flood. Through the thick shades obscurely might you see Minotaures, Cyclopses, with a darke drove Of Dragons, Hydraes, Sphinxes, fill the grove.