Classic Poem

I dwell in Grace's courte,
Enrichd with Vertue's rightes;
Faith guides my witt; Love leades my will
Hope all my mynde delightes.

In lowly vales I mounte
To Pleasure's highest pitch;
My sely shroud trew honors bringes,
My poore estate is ritch.

My conscience is my crowne,
Contented thoughts my rest;
My hart is happy in it selfe,
My blisse is in my breste.

Enoughe, I recken welthe;
A meane the surest lott,
That lyes too highe for base contempt,
Too lowe for envye's shott.

My wishes are but fewe,
All easye to fullfill,
I make the lymits of my poure
The bounds unto my will.

I have no hopes, but one,
Which is of heavenly raigne;
Effects atteynd, or not desird,
All lower hopes refrayne.

I feele no care of coyne,
Well-dooing is my welth;
My mynd to me an empire is,
While grace affordeth helth.

I clipp high-clyming thoughtes:
The winges of swelling pride;
Their fall is worst, that from the heyghth
Of greatest honours slyde.

Sith sayles of largest size
The storme doth soonest teare,
I beare so lowe and smale a sayle
As freeth me from feare.

I wrastle not with rage,
While Furie's flame doth burne;
It is in vayne to stopp the streame
Untill the tide do turne.

But when the flame is out,
And ebbing wrath doth end,
I turne a late enragèd foe
Into a quiett frende.

And taught with often proofe,
A tempered calme I finde
To be most solace to it self,
Best cure for angry mynde.

Spare diett is my fare,
My clothes more fitt then fine;
I knowe I feede and cloth a foe
That pampred would repine.

I envye not their happ,
Whome favour doth advance;
I take no pleasure in their payne,
That have lesse happy chaunce.

To rise by others' fall
I deeme a loosing gaine;
All states with others' ruyns built,
To ruyne runne amaygne.

No chaunge of Fortune's calmes
Can cast my comfortes downe;
When Fortune smyles, I smile to thinke
How quickly she will frowne.

And when in froward moode
She prooves an angry foe,
Smale gayne I found to lett her come,
Lesse losse to let her goe.