Classic Poem

Sweete is the thought where hope persuadeth hap,
Although the mynd be fed with faint desire:
The dunghil drone would mount to honours lap,
If forward thoughts to fortune could aspire;
The ventrous knight, whom vallor doth advaunce,
First cuts off dread with hope of happie chaunce.

If hope of fame supperst not feare of death,
In face of shot the souldier would not run;
Or recke so small the losse of lively breath,
If spoyle thereof a slender glory won:
Nor merchants would to seeke out forreine soyle,
If hope of gaine ne recompenst their toyle.

The murdrous mate, the traitour, and the theefe,
By conscience guilt that bathes in bitter teares,
In hope of grace doth sucke out sweete reliese,
Which weares to eb their flowing tyde of feares:
Then, sith she feeds the wights forworne with wo,
Why should I faint, though Fortune be my fo?

Whose thought doth climbe by vertue, not by vice,
To whom perforce proude Fortune yeldes a thral,
Suppose (sly hap) may hinder my device,
Feare feedes the heart that faintes for every fall:
If first come short, then frame a newe account,
The forward mynde a thousand wayes may mount.

Thou seest that doultes, whome only hap advaunce,
Dare overrule their betters farre in wit,
Which vailde their hope to every sorrie chaunce,
What may be, then, whose hap with skill is knit?
Bare sway by will, as well in wrong as right,
Grudge may his foes, but not withstande his might.

Yet hardly men by vertue do aspire:
Spight sowes suspect, till their desart be tryde,
But once advaunst is that the wise desire,
In favour they for fortunes chaunge provide:
Then though at first thou light in envies trap,
Small were thy losse, which never earst hadst hap.

If so it be, in hope I forward set
To raunge the world, as fortune shall me drive,
A happy toyle, if credite so I get,
As sure I shall; for what is he alive,
But hath good hap, within so large a scope?
God and Saint George, send fortune as I hope!