Classic Poem

O fortune false how double are thy deedes,
Thy painted Flowres are nought in proose but weedes.
Who are brought downe, by thy most frowarde frownes,
Still subiect liue, and trouble them redownes.
To slipper happes annexed are their dayes,
To Lyons force, their bodyes are but prayes.
What so they winne by meritte or deserte,
Is from them rest, by power that doth subuerte.
Now welthy men doe tell the wisest tales,
And muck is made an equall weyghing schales.
No reason yet, but right should be of force,
And vertue would that wante should finde remorse.
But as the tossed Barke bydes better blysse,
And sharpest thrall in tyme released is,
And as the feeble Reedes are rente by Seas,
Yet spring againe, when swelling waues appease.
So hope I will, though now the ebbe be lowe.
A spring in time with former course may flowe.