Classic Poem

Know ye the witch's dell?
No more than I do know the walks of Hell
Within a gloomy dimble she doth dwell
Down in a pit, o'ergrown with brakes and briars,
Close by the ruins of a shaken abbey
Torn, with an earthquake, down unto the ground,
'Mongst graves, and grotts, near an old charnel house,
Where you shall find her sitting in her form,
As fearful, and melancholic, as that
She is about; with caterpillar's kells,
And knotty cobwebs, rounded in with spells;
Thence she steals forth to relief, in the fogs,
And rotten mists, upon the fens, and bogs,
Down to the drowned lands of Lincolnshire;
To make ewes cast their lambs.