Şiir 6
No holding thee, ill-manner'd upstart flood ;
Not my love-tales can make thee stay thy course,
Thou—zounds, thou art a—river for a horse.
Thou hadst no fountain, but from bears wert pist,
From snows, and thaws, or Scotch unsav'ry mist.
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Thou crawl'st along, in winter foul and poor,
In summer puddled like a common-shore.
In all thy days when didst a courtesy ?
Dry traveller ne'er laid a lip to thee.
The bane to cattle, to the meadows worse,
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For something all, I for my sufferings curse.
To such unworthy wretch, how am I sham'd,
That I the gen'rous am'rous river nam'd!
When Nile and Achelous I display'd,
And Thame and Ouse, what worm was in my head
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For thy reward, discourteous river, I
Wish, be the summers hot, the winters dry.
