Beware, delighted poets, when you sing,
To welcome nature in the early spring,
Your numerous feet not tread
The banks of Avon, for each flower
(As it ne'er knew a sun or shower)
Hangs there the pensive head.

Each Tree, whose thick, and spreading growth hath made,
Rather a Night beneath the Boughs, than Shade,
(Unwilling now to grow)
Looks like the Plume a Captive wears,
Whose rifled Falls are steeped i'th tears
Which from his last rage flow.

The piteous River wept itself away
Long since (Alas!) to such a swift decay;
That reach the Map; and look
If you a River there can spy;
And for a River your mock'd Eye,
Will find a shallow Brook.