(1) Beware (delighted Poets!) when you sing To welcome Nature in the early Spring; Your num'rous Feet not tread The Banks of Avon; for each Flowre (As it nere knew a Sunne or Showre) Hangs there, the pensive head.
(2) Each Tree, whose thick, and spreading growth hath made, Rather a Night beneath the Boughs, than Shade, (Unwilling now to grow) Lookes like the Plume a Captive weares, Whose rifled Falls are steept i'th teares Which from his last rage flow.
(3) The piteous River wept it selfe away Long since (Alas!) to such a swift decay; That reach the Map; and looke If you a River there can spie; And for a River your mock'd Eie, Will finde a shallow Brooke.
