Classic Poem

He's free, who's wise, to rule himself doth know:
Conquer'd, by patience conquer can his foe:
Whom enemies serve to polish, rust off file;
Envy's rust eats not in, or makes more vile.
These flails serve onely husks off for to beat,
And to heav'ns granary render purer wheat;
More fertile grows, like to the bleeding Vine;
In fortunes night, star-like doth brighter shine.
Though's Masters fort's be lost, retains one still
Of brasse within: is conscious of no ill.
Though fortunes Tennis ball yet mounts on high,
Cast on the earth, from thence to heav'n doth fly:
Grows best ith' shade, like the triumphant Bay,
And green with vertue doth his boughs display.
The frost of th' times to this Corns nutriment turns,
Who like a torch that's beaten, brighter burns:
Can smile at all the Pageantry of vice;
Poor vertue happier think, with her own price.
To Velvet Cushions no devotion pay;
Knows straw within, though their outsides be gay.
In giddy Tumults doth ingage no friends,
Whom servile fear betrays, or baser ends.
Will neither Protest, Covenant, or Ingage,
Or sacrifice Conscience to the Rabbles rage.
Though the people waters th' wiseman is a Rock,
Unmov'd doth th' fury of the waters mock.
Pleas of Religion doth no Hackney make,
To carry lusts, and tir'd doth them forsake.
Nor lur'd unto the fancy of the times,
To profit stoops, adopting others crimes.
Happy 'bove th' Lord, who plays at petty game
Rather then sit out, sits and votes his shame:
Whose presence for a testimonial serves;
No house can lower be then he deserves.
Who sacrifice Reason to Successe, must rear
To Fortune Altars, pay devotion there.
In History no trifler but doth know
At Vertues root, Envy a Worm doth grow.
An Aristides, Phocion, Greece exiles;
Corialan and Scipio, Rome despoils.
'Tis Kingly to do good, and suffer ill:
Since 'tis a Royal mode retain it still.
Kisse but the rod, your father leaves his ire;
Correction past may cast it in the fire.
It doth but humble on your knees you bring,
And from an earthly teach to serve heav'ns King.
Of all your servants have the times left one?
Who serves himself, serv'd best, and hath got none.
Scorn scurrilous plaints; no mouth-granadoes vent
'Gainst foes; above them plac'd, while you're content.
Who wants not that, which wanting, nature grieves
Can't want, each one as much hath, as believes.
Who to desire hath nought, nought to admire,
Th' Magnifico on State Pyramids plac'd's not higher.
A Centuple retribution waits his losse,
Whom faith can teach t' imparadise a Crosse.
On Fortunes Rack we easily life despise;
Broke on her Wheel, who smiling suffer's wise.