Life's bark, Licinius, rightly would you steer,
Nor aye stand on into the open, nor
Foul weather to avoid run in too near
A rocky shore.

The golden mean who chooses will not know
For home a squalid hovel's crumbling walls,
Content the envied splendour to forgo
Of palace halls.

The fury of the blast more often shakes
The giant pine, high towers with heavier crash
Fall down, and on the mountain summit breaks
The lightning flash.

A change of fortune the well-tutored mind
In weal, in woe, with fear or hope attends.
Jove brings, and Jove the devastating wind
Of winter ends.

To-morrow cures the ills that vex to-day.
Sometimes Apollo will the silent lute
To music wake, nor with bent bow alway
Stands forth to shoot.

When troubles hem you in, be not downcast,
But front them boldly; yet 'twere wisdom still
To shorten sail, if a fair breeze, too fast,
The canvas fill.