Classic Poem

You better sure shall live, not evermore
Trying high seas, nor, while sea's rage you flee,
Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.

The golden mean who loves, lives safely free
From filth of forworn house, and quiet lives,
Released from court, where envy needs must be.

The wind most oft the hugest pine-tree grieves;
The stately towers come down with greater fall;
The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves;

Ill haps do fill with hope, good haps appal
With fear of change the courage well prepared;
Foul winters, as they come, away they shall.

Though present times and past with ills be snared,
They shall not last; with cithern silent Muse
Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared.

In hard estate with stout show valour use;
The same man still in whom wisdom prevails,
In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails.