Praise of mean and constant Estate

OF thy life, Thomas, this compass well mark:

Not aye with full sails the high seas to beat;

Ne by coward dread, in shunning storms dark,

On shallow shores thy keel in peril freat.

Whoso gladly halseth the golden mean,

Void of dangers advisedly hath his home;

Not with loathsome muck as a den unclean,

Nor palace like, whereat disdain may glome.

The lofty pine the great wind often rives;

With violenter sway fallen turrets steep;

Lightnings assault the high mountains and clives.

A heart well stay’d, in overthwartes deep.

Hopeth amends; in sweet, doth fear the sour.

God that sendeth, withdraweth winter sharp.

Now ill, not aye thus; once Phœbus to low’r,

With bow unbent, shall cease; and frame to harp.

His voice in strait estate appear thou stout;

And so wisely, when lucky gale of wind

All thy puft sails shall fill, look well about;

Take in a reef: haste is waste, proof doth find.