Classic Poem

Where Fortune fauoreth not, what labor may preuaile?
Who frowning fate wil needs thrust down, what shal he win to waile?
With pacient mind to yeeld, is sure the soundest way,
And cast our cares and griefe on him, that fatall force doth sway.
For Death with equall pace, doth passe to Princes gate,
And there as at the Cottage poore, doth knock in one like state.
The tyme or maner how, the highst no more can tell,
Then poorest Peysant placed here, in base estate to dwell.
Sithe then such feeble stay, in mortall might we finde,
Why should the wante of worldly drosse, in dole once daunt our minde.
The Tylman pore in toyle, that spends the weary day,
Whose welth will scarce supply his wante, when some whoorde heaps y play.
Fals not to flat dispaire, ne yet his labor leaues,
Though scarce the stubble prooues his share, when others shock the sheaues
But liues with mind content, more free fro care & strife,
Then those it hunger highest hap, where dangers dwel most rife.
Though prowde ambition blinde, puft vp with glory vaine,
Detest their state that riches wante, with hawty high disdaine.
The Seas oft troubled are, by winds that whyrling flye,
When shallow streams yeeld water cleere, in valleis low it lye.
High Mountaynes set on fyre, by lightning eke we see,
When Pastures placed vnderneath, in nothing altered bee.
The formost fronte in fight, are neerest deadly wounde,
The lofty tree is soonst blowne down, & leueld with the grounde.
So such as thirst to clymbe, to daunger most are thrall,
Whose slyding glory sawced is, with honey mixt with Gall.
For who so gript with griefe, if Fortune liste to lowre,
As those that earst did feede at full, vpon her fayrest flowre?
Which change full oft hath falne, through her vnconstantnesse,
And whome she lately laught vpon, throwne downe remedilesse.
Was A LEXANDER great, that many daungers past,
For all his mightie conquest wonne, not slayne himselfe at last?
A kings sonne eke I finde, for Fathers tyranny,
Constraynde to worke a Smith in Forge, by harde necessity.
Such is the fading force, of Fortunes fickle powre,
Whose fruitfulst fruite both rypes and rottes, in lesse space then an howre.
Such is her tickle trust, such are her slipper steps,
That what she seemes to sowe in ioy, with sorrow oft she reaps.
Attribute all to him, that fate doth guyde therefore,
With wylling mind embrace thy lot, where rich thou be or pore.