Classic Poem

A pretty toye wrytten in the praise of a straunge Springe in Suffolke
I NEUER trauailde countreys farre
whereby strange things to see,
As woods and waters, Beasts & byrds,
wherein such vertues bee,
As are not common to be had
but seeldome to be found:
And hearbes and stones, of nature such
as none are on the ground.
But as I haue red of many one
and surely, in my minde,
As well at home as farre abroad
I many straung things finde.
But many men whose runing heads,
delights abroad to range,
Whose fancies fond are dayly fed,
With toyes and choice of change:
What euer their owne soyle dooth yeeld
they do not whit esteeme:
But far fet & deare bought, that they
most worthy praise doo deeme.
But tis no matter let that passe,
ech one, where he thinkes best,
Choose what and whe and where he likes
& leue his frends the rest.
And let me speake in praise of that
which worthy, in my minde
And therewith, rare like to be seene
in England, here I fynde.
No beast, nor byrde, no stick nor stone.
no hearbe nor flower it is,
No foule nor Fish, no metall strange:
nought but a Spring ywis.
But such a Spring, so cleare so fayre
so sweete and delicate:
That happy he may thinke himselfe
that may come sip thereat.
To speake in praise thereof at large
it were to much for me,
As it deserues; but if I were
a Poet, as some be:
Sure I would spend a little time
to let the world to know,
That out of our small Iland yet
so fyne a Spring dooth flow
In Ouids Metamorphosis
I read there of a Spring,
Whereby Narcissus caught his bane
[and] only with looking
Long while vpon the same: for loe
the water shone so cleare,
That thorow the same, the shadow of
his face did so appeare,
That he forgetting quite himselfe
fell so enamoured
Of his owne face that there he lay
as one amazde, halfe dead:
So long, till at the last,
for want of very foode,
He fell starke madde, and lost his life
in place whereas he stoode:
And after his ghost yeelded vp
(at least as Poets faine.)
His Corps was turned to a flower
which there did still remaine:
Which flower, if I doo not mistake
is tearmde the Lilly white.
If this be false, blame Ouid then
that such a tale would write
But if it had beene true,
when he so sore was greeued,
Had he but come vnto this Spring
he had beene soone releeued:
For in this Spring he should haue seene
no shadowes of a face,
But such a face as should in deede
his owne so much disgrace,
That he should haue forgotte his owne
if this he once did see.
Now he that doth desire to know
wher this same Spring should be:
In Suffolke soyle, who so best list
let him I say go seeke:
And he may hap to see a Spring
he neuer saw the leeke