Classic Poem

CHAPTER III .

But every cloud cannot hide Phaebus' face,
Nor shut the casement of his living flame;
Nor is there every soul which wanteth grace,
Nor every heart seduc'd with mischief's name:
Life cannot live without corruption,
World cannot be without destruction.

Nor is the body all corrupt, or world
Bent wholly unto wickedness' assault;
The adder is not always seen uncurl'd,
Nor every soul found guilty in one fault;
Some good, some bad; but those whom virtues guard,
Heaven is their haven, comfort their reward.

Thrice-happy habitation of delight,
Thrice-happy step of immortality,
Thrice-happy souls to gain such heavenly sight,
Springing from heaven's perpetuity!
O peaceful place! but O thrice-peaceful souls,
Whom neither threats nor strife nor wars controls!

They are not like the wicked, for they live;
Nor they like to the righteous, for they die;
Each of their lives a differing nature give:
One thinks that life ends with mortality,
And that the righteous never live again,
But die as subjects to a grievous pain.

What labouring soul refuseth for to sweat,
Knowing his hire, his payment, his reward,
To suffer winter's cold and summer's heat,
Assured of his labour's due regard?
The bee with summer's toil will lade her hive,
In winter's frost to keep herself alive.

And what divinest spirit would not toil,
And suffer many torments, many pains,
This world's destruction, heavy labour's foil,
When heaven is their hire, heaven's joy their gains?
Who would not suffer torments for to die,
When death's reward is immortality?

Pain is the entrance to eternal joy;
Death endeth life, and death beginneth life,
Beginneth happy, endeth in annoy,
Begins immortal peace, ends mortal strife;
Then, seeing death and pains bring joy and heaven,
What need we fear death's pain, when life is given?

Say sickness, or infirmity's disease
(As many harms hang over mortal heads),
Should be his world's reward; yet heaven hath ease,
A salve to cure, and quiet resting beds:
God maketh in earth's world lament our pleasure,
That in heaven's world delight might be our treasure.

Fair may the shadow be, the substance foul;
After the trial followeth the trust;
The clearest skin may have the foulest soul;
The purest gold will sooner take the rust;
The brook, though ne'er so clear, may take some soil;
The hart, though ne'er so strong, may take some foil.

Wouldst thou be counted just; make thyself just,
Or purify thy mire-bespotted heart;
For God doth try thy actions ere he trust,
Thy faith, thy deeds, thy words, and what thou art;
He will receive no mud for clearest springs,
Nor thy unrighteous words for righteous things.

As God is perfect God and perfect good,
So he accepteth none but perfect minds;
They ever prosper, flourish, live, and bud,
Like blessed plants, far from destruction's winds;
Still bud, ne'er fade, still flourish, ne'er decay;
Still rise, ne'er fall, still spring, ne'er fade away.

Who would not covet to be such a plant,
Who would not wish to stand in such a ground,
Sith it doth neither fruit nor blessing want,
Nor aught which in this plant might not be found?
They are the righteous which enjoy this earth,
The figure of an ever-bearing birth.

The small is always subject to the great,
The young to him which is of elder time,
The lowest place unto the highest seat,
And pale-fac'd Phaebe to bright Phaebus' clime;
Vice is not governor of virtue's place,
But blushes for to see so bright a face.

Virtue is chief, and virtue will be chief,
Chief good, and chief Astraea, justice' mate,
Both for to punish and to yield relief,
And have dominion over every state,
To right the wrongs which wickedness hath done,
Delivering nations from life-lasting moan.

O you, whose causes plungeth in despair,
Sad-fac'd petitioners with grief's request!
What seek you? here's nor justice nor her heir,
But woe and sorrow, with death's dumb arrest;
Turn up your woe-blind eyes unto the sky,
There sits the judge can yield you remedy.

Trust in his power, he is the truest God,
True God, true judge, true justice, and true guide;
All truth is placed in his truth's abode,
All virtues seated at his virtuous side;
He will regard your suit, and ease your plaint,
And mollify your misery's constraint.

Then shall you see the judges of the earth
Summoned with the trumpet of his ire,
To give account and reckoning from their birth,
Whe'r worthy or unworthy of their hire:
The godly shall receive their labour's trial,
The wicked shall receive their joy's denial.

They which did sleep in sin, and not regarded
The poor man's fortune prostrate at their feet,
Even as they dealt, so shall they be rewarded,
When they their toiled souls' destruction meet;
From judges they petitioners shall be,
Yet want the sight which they do sue to see.

That labour which is grounded on delight,
That hope which reason doth enrich with hap,
That merit which is plac'd in wisdom's might,
Secure from mischief's bait or folly's clap,
Wit's labour, reason's hope, and wisdom's merit,
All three in one, make one thrice-happy spirit.

Why set I happiness 'fore mortal eyes,
Which covets to be drench'd in misery,
Mantling their foolish minds in folly's guise,
Despising wisdom's perpetuity?
Sin's labour, folly's hope, and vice's merit,
These three in one make a thrice-cursed spirit.

Vain hope must needs consist in what is vain;
All foolish labours flows from folly's tears;
Unprofitable works proceed from pain,
And pain ill labour's duest guerdon bears;
Three vanities in one, and one in three,
Make three pains one, and one uncertainty.

A wicked king makes a more wicked land;
Heads once infected soon corrupts the feet;
If the tree falls, the branches cannot stand,
Nor children, be their parents indiscreet;
The man infects the wife, the wife the child,
Like birds which in one nest be all defil'd.

The field which never was ordain'd to bear
Is happier far than a still-tilled ground;
This sleeps with quietness in every year,
The other curs'd if any tares be found;
The barren happier than she that bears,
This brings forth joy, the other tares and tears.

The eunuch never lay in vice's bed,
The barren woman never brought forth sin;
These two in heaven's happiness are led,
She fruit in soul, he fruit in faith doth win:
O rare and happy man, for ever blest!
O rare and happy woman, heaven's guest!

Who seeks to reap before the corn be ripe?
Who looks for harvest among winter's frost?
Or who in grief will follow pleasure's pipe?
What mariner can sail upon the coast?
That which is done in time is done in season,
And things done out of time is out of reason.

The glorious labour is in doing good,
In time's observance, and in nature's will,
Whose fruit is also glorious for our food,
If glory may consist in labour's skill,
Whose root is wisdom, which shall never wither,
But spring, and sprout, and love, and live together.

But every ground doth not bear blessed plants,
Nor every plant brings forth expected fruit;
What this same ground may have, another wants;
Nor are all causes answer'd with one suit:
That tree whose root is sound, whose grounding strong,
May firmly stand when others lie along.

View nature's beauty, mark her changing hue,
She is not always foul, not always fair,
Chaste and unchaste she is, true and untrue,
And some springs from her in a lustful air;
And these adulterers be, whose seed shall perish;
Never shall lust and wickedness long flourish.

Although the flint be hard, the water soft,
Yet is it mollified with lightest drops;
Hard is the water when the wind's aloft;
Small things in time may vanquish greatest stops:
The longer grows the tree, the greater moss;
The longer soil remains, the more the dross.

The longer that the wicked lives on earth,
The greater is their pain, their sin, their shame,
The greater vice's reign and virtue's dearth,
The greater goodness' lack and mischief's name;
When in their youth no honour they could get,
Old age could never pay so young a debt.

To place an honour in dishonour's place,
Were but to make disparagement of both;
Both enemies, they could not brook the case,
For honour to subvert dishonour's growth:
Dishonour will not change for honour's room,
She hopes to stay after their bodies' doom.

Or live they long, or die they suddenly,
They have no hope, nor comfort of reward;
Their hope of comfort is iniquity,
The bar by which they from their joys are barr'd:
O old-new end, made to begin new grief!
O new beginning, end of old relief!