Classic Poem

How fast thou hast'st (O spring) with sweetest speed
To catch thy waters which befor are runn,
And of the greater rivers wellcom wunn,
'Ere thes thy new borne streames thes places feed,

Yett you doe well least staying heere might breed
Dangerous fluds your sweetest banks t'orerunn,
And yett much better my distress to shunn
Which makes my teares your swiftest course succeed,

Butt best you doe when with soe hasty flight,
You fly my ills which now my self outgoe,
Whose broken hart can testify such woe,
That soe o'recharg'd my lyfe blood wasteth quite.

Sweet spring then keepe your way, bee never spent
And my ill days, or griefs assunder rent.