frys,  chaps, and burns
Her kindling Grove; fair  mourns.
The Airy  and Gloomy Appenine,
With  in the  shine:
Surrounded thus with Smoak, and Wrathful Fires,
Unhappy  almost
within, and  all without,
By's surious Steeds, at pleasure, hurl'd about;
Gasping, and saint, still hurried round, nor more,
Tho prop't by Fate, a  could have bore:
They say, the  now with heat
Adust, and scorch't, diffus'd a Sable Sweat;
And all the wasted  sadly ring
Of some fair  Mourning for her
Nor from the Mightyer Streams the Flame recoils,
For in its  antient  boyls.
whose Waves agen that Fate must know;
whose wild Waters, circling flow.