Classic Poem

The merchant man, whom gain doth teach the sea
Where rocks do wait for them the winds do chase,
Beaten with waves, no sooner kens the bay
Where he was bound to make his marting place,
But fear forgot, and pains all overpast,
Make present ease receive the better taste.

The labourer, which cursed earth up tears,
With sweaty brows, sometimes with wat'ry eyes,
Oft scorching sun, oft cloudy darkness fears,
While upon chance his fruit of labour lies;
But harvest come, and corn in fertile store,
More in his own he toiled, he glads the more.

Thus in my pilgrimage of mated mind,
Seeking the saint in whom all graces dwell,
What storms found me, what torments I did find,
Who seeks to know acquaints himself with hell;
But now success hath got above annoys,
That sorrow's weight doth balance up these joys.