Classic Poem

Flee fro the prees and dwell with soothfastnesse;
Suffice unto thy thing, though it be smal;
For hord hath hate, and climbing tikelnesse,
Prees hath envye, and wele blent overal;
Savour no more than thee behove shal.
Wirche wel thyself, that other folk canst rede;
And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede.

Tempest thee not al croked to redresse,
In trust of hir that turneth as a bal —
For grete rest stant in litel bisinesse;
And eek be ware to sporne ayenst an al;
Strive not as doth the crokke with the wal.
Daunte thyself, that dauntest otheres dede;
And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede.
That thee is sent, receive in buxumnesse;
The wrestling for this worlde asketh a fal:
Here n'is none home, here n'is but wildernesse:
Forth, pilgrim, forth! Forth, beest, out of thy stal!
Know thy countree, look up, thank God of al.
Hold the high way and let thy gost thee lede;
And trouthe shal delivere, it is no drede.