Classic Poem

Sweete ar the thoughtes, wher Hope persuadeth Happe,
Great ar the Joyes, wher Harte obtaynes requeste,
Dainty the lyfe, nurst still in Fortunes lappe.
Much is the ease, wher troubled mindes finde rest.
These ar the fruicts, that valure doth advaunce,
And cutes of Dread, by Hope of happy chaunce.

Thus Hope bringes Hap; but to the worthy wight,
Thus Pleasure comes; but after hard assay,
Thus Fortune yeldes, in mauger of her spight,
Thus happy state is none without delay.
Then must I needes advaunce my self by skyll,
And lyve, and serve, in hope of your goodwyll.