Classic Poem

Of a pen for a running hand.

The hand and golden pen Clophonian,
Sets on his signe to shew (O proud poore soule!)
Both where he wonnes, and how the same he wan
From writers faire, though he writ euer foule;
But by that hand that pen so borne hath beene
From place to place, that for the last halfe yeare
It scarce a sennight at a place is seene;
That hand so plies that pen though nere the neere:
For when men seeke it, els-where it is sent,
Or there shut vp (as for the plague) for rent
 Without which stay it neuer still could stand,
 Because the pen is for a running hand.