Horace: Ode: 13: Lib: 3

O sacred Fountaine, clearer farre
Than purest Cristalls are.
Worthy, like to a Pow'r divine.
A Sacrifice of Wine:
And to be deckt about thy brinke
With Violett, and Pinke:
Tomorrow I doe promise Thee
To offer up a hee
Kidd butted, for a Sacrafice
Whose blood (like to the Skies
When Phebus setts) sprinkled shall be
in honour of thy Purity.

Thee nor the scorching Dogdaies heat,
Nor cann the Sun-beams beat
Through those same shades, which o're thee grow,
First sprung from thy overflow;
But thou art coolest then, when heat
Causeth the Flock to bleat
For water. —

Thou shalt hereafter counted be
'Mongst the nobility
Of Fountaines; and thy purling spring
In pibbles make a murmuring.