[I.]
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 Flower
(As it ne'er knew a Sun, or Shower,)
  Hangs, there, the pensive Head.

II.
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 Captain weares,
Whose rifled Falls are steept i'th' Teares
  Which from his last Rage flow.

III.
The piteous River wept it self away,
Long since (alas!) to such a swift decay,
  That reach the Map, and look
If you a River there can spie:
And, for a River, your mock'd Eye
  Will find a shallow Brooke. W. Davenant