Classic Poem

As the yong hart, when sunne with goldin beames
Progressith in the first post of the skie,
Turning old vinter's snowie haire in streames,
Leauith the voods vher he vas vont to lie,
Vher his desir him leads the hills among,
He runes, he feades, the cruking brookes along;
Emprison'd onlie with heauen's canopie,
Vanton he cares not ocht that dolour brings,
Hungry he spares not flowres vith names of kings;
He thinkes al far, vho can him fol espie,
Til bloudie bullet part his chefest part:
In my yong spring, alas! so vandred I,
Vhen cruel sche sent out from iettie eie
The deadlie schaft of vich I bleding smart.