Classic Poem

He is not ded that somtyme hath a fall,
The sonne retorneth that was under the clowd,
And when fortune hath spitt oute all her gall,
I trust good luck to me shalbe allowd.
For I have sene a shipp into haven fall
After the storme hath broke boeth mast and shrowd,
And eke the willowe that stoppeth with the wynde
Doeth ryse again and greater wode doeth bynd.