Classic Poem

The worlde so wide, th'air so remuable,
The sely man so litel of stat u re,
The grove and ground of clothing so mutable,
The fire so hot and subtil of nat u re,
The water never in oon — what creät u re,
That made is of these foure thus flitting,
May stedfast be as here in his living?

The more I go the ferther I am behinde,
The ferther behind the neer my wayes ende;
The more I seche the worse can I finde,
The lighter leve the lother for to wende;
The bet I serve the more al out of mende.
Is this fort u ne — n'ot I — or infortune?
Though I go loose, tied am I with a lune.