O fair! O sweet! when I do look on thee, In whom all joys so well agree, Sweet, think not I am at ease, For because my chief part singeth; This song from death's sorrow springeth: As to swan in last disease: For no dumbness, nor death, bringeth Stay to true love's melody: Heart and soul do sing in me.
From Horace, Book II. Ode X., beginning "Rectius vives, Licini," &c.
You better sure shall live, not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while sea's rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.
The golden mean who loves, lives safely free From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, Released from court, where envy needs must be.
The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves: The stately towers come down with greater fall: The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves.
Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall With fear of change, the courage well prepared: Foul winters, as they come, away they shall.
Though present times, and past, with evils be snared, They shall not last: with cithern silent Muse, Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime spared.
In hard estate, with stout shows, valour use, The same man still, in whom wisdom prevails; In too full wind draw in thy swelling sails.