Classic Poem

Cleare mouing cristall, pure as the sunne beames,
Which had the honour for to be the glasse
Of the most daintie beautie euer was;
And with her shadow did enrich thy streames,
Thy treasures now cannot be bought for monie,
Whilst she dranke thee, thou drank'st thy fill of loue,
And of those roses didst the sweetnes proue,
From which the bees of loue do gather honie:
Th' ambrosian liquor that he fils aboue,
Whom th' eagle rauish'd from th' inferior round,
It is not like this nectar (though renown'd)
Which thou didst tast, whilst she her lips did moue:
But yet beware, lest burning with desires,
That all thy waters cannot quench thy fires.