An Ode Of Horace Turned At The Desier Of My Ladye His Lo: Wyfe Poem by Nicholas Bacon

The righteste course in lyfe to keepe
Is not to presse alwayes to runne
With sayles vppe hoyste in the mayne deepe,
Nor yet for feare the storme shoulde come
The crooked shore to nere to creepe.

The golden meane whosoe loues well
Shall safe and free thereby eschewe
The lothesome howse with filthe and smelle
And envious spighte the which is due
To suche as in the Pallace dwell.

The greate proude Pyne eache wynde dothe shake,
The loftier tower mounted on hye
The greater falle on grounde dothe make:
The Lighteninge brime fallen from the Skye
The mountaynes huge with flames dothe take.

A mynde well taughte standes suer and faste,
When fortune frownes hopeinge of better:
And when she smiles it makes noe haste,
Knoweinge that Jove oft with his Septer
Brynges and removes the winters blaste.

Althoughe nowe ill not ever be
With lowringe looke and with bowe bente,
Thoughe Phebus nowe dothe threate greate woe,
Or it be longe with harpe full Jente
His mirthe shall force all feare thee froe.

In stormye tymes have courage stoute,
And in forewyndes sayleinge at will
Gather in thye sayles with wynde puffed oute,
And thus thou shalte throwe rede and will
Rvnne the righte race withoute all doute.