Classic Poem

You better, sure, shall liue, not euermore
Trying high seas; nor, while sea's rage you flee,
Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.
The golden meane who loues liues safely free
From filth of foreworne house, and quiet liues,
Releast from Court, where enuie needes must be
The winde most oft the hugest pine-tree greeues;
The stately towers come downe with greater fall;
The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleeues;
Euill happes do fill with hope, good happes appall
With feare of change, the courage well preparde;
Fowle Winters, as they come, away they shall
Though present times and past with euils be snarde,
They shall not last; with citherne silent Muse
Apollo wakes, and bowe hath sometime sparde
In hard estate, with stowt shew valor vse;
The same man still, in whom wisedome preuailes,
In too full winde draw in thy swelling sailes.