Classic Poem

The dread of future foes exyle my present Joy
And wit mee warns to shunne soche snares as thretten myne annoy
ffor fallshood now doth flow and subjects fayth doth ebbe
which shold not be yf reason rewld or Wysdome wove the webbe.
But clowds of Joyes untried, doth cloke aspiring minds
Which turne to rage of late report, by chaunged course of minds
The topps of hope suppose, the roote of Rue shalbee.
and fruteles of their graffed guile as shortlie yow shall see
The dazeled eyes with pride, with great ambition blynde
shalbe unsealld by worthie wights, whose foresight falshood fyndes
The daughter of Debate, that discord ay doth sow
Shall reape no gaine where former rule, still peace hath taught to know
No fforain banisht wight, shall ankor in this Port
Our Realm brooks no seditious sects, Let them elswhere resort
My Rustie sword through rest, shall first his edge imploy
To poll the topps that seekes such chaunge or gapes for further Joy.