Classic Poem

As fyre doth fine and seperate Golde from drosse,
And shews the pure and perfite from the vyle:
Right so is tryde, when nipping stormes doe tosse,
A faythfull friend, from such as meane but guyle.
Whylste Fortune smyles, and thou no wante dost feele,
Of friends no doubt thou shalt haue heaped store,
But if she once doe whyrle aside hir wheele,
They slinke away, as though vnknowne before.
Lyke Doues that leaue the olde and ruynous towre,
And flocking flye to buyldings braue and new:
So fayned friends, when fortune seemes to lowre,
Their flight do take, and bids thee straight adew,
Thus he which earst bad friends on euery side,
Not hauing one, alone doth now abide.