Fit purior haustu

IF that the Well we draw, and emptie oft:
The water there remaineth sweete and good:
But standing long, it growes corrupt and naught,
And serues no more, by reason of the mudde,
In Summer hot, to coole our inward heate,
To wash, to water, or to dresse our meate.

So, if we doe not excercise our wit,
By dayly labour, and invention still:
In little time, our sloth corrupteth it,
With in bred vices, foule and stincking ill:
That both the glories of our life deface,
And stoppe the source, and head of heavenly grace.