By paved fountain or by rushy brook,
[085] Or in the beached margent of the sea,
To dance our ringlets to the whistling wind,
But with thy brawls thou hast disturb’d our sport.
Therefore the winds, piping to us in vain,
As in revenge, have suck’d up from the sea
090 Contagious fogs; which falling in the land,
[091] Have every pelting river made so proud,
That they have overborne their continents:
The ox hath therefore stretch’d his yoke in vain,