Classic Poem

foly.

We fools, to broken cisterns goe
Although the fountain still doth flow

To which we may, have free recourse
whilst it doth run, with a full source

What mad ons then ar we to think
That sweeter, is this pudled drink

And purer, then the fountain head
In which coruption, never bred

The farther from the fountain we
To goe, the dregier it will bee

What fools ar we, to dote upon
Thesse filthy stremes, which run along

Here through the durty veins of earth
And in our souls, will breed a dearth.

Whilst we still wholsome liquor might
Drink, att the fountain of delight.

And though thesse stremes, they run not clear
Wee doe oft times, for them pay deer.

Wheras the fountain, runeth free
Whoever will, may wellcome bee.

The stremes ar mixt with bitternese
Continually, both more, or lesse.

The fountain we may still be sure
To find unmixed, sweet, & pure.

At the stremes we may drink, and burst
But they will never quench, our thurst.

The fountain that doth satisfie
And quench our thurst, when we ar dry.

The stremes they will, our hopes deceive
The fountain, never doth bereave.

Us of what we expect from it
Nor never once will intermit.

To run with constant, fresh supplys
Suted, to our necessitys.

The stremes drink, brackish, flatt, & dead
But get a tast of'th fountain head.

And that will put thy mouth soe out
Of tast, thou'lt never seek about.

After the stream, or cast an eye
To it, But thou wilt long to lye.

Att fountain head, to drink thy fill
Upon the top, of Zion hill.