The Tenth Ode of the Second Book of Horace

IF you thro Life's uncertain Tyde,
Your self, dear Friend, would safely guide,
Do not the boundless Main explore,
Where Boreas rages unconfin'd:
Nor to get underneath the Wind,
Venture the Rocks too near the Shore.

The man stands equally exempt
From dangerous envy and contempt,
Who loves the middle golden state:
He neither sordidly doth lye
In dust, nor stands exalted nigh
Some ghastly precipice of Fate.

Tempests the lofty Cedar rend,
And on the ground its trunk extend,
Whilst safe the humbler Plants are found.
The Tow'r which insolently shrowds
Its stately head amongst the Clouds,
Its fall does into Atoms pound.

At Heads of Gyant Hills which rise
With horrid Brows t' affront the Skies,
Iove the impetuous Thunder whirls;
The hillocks it flies grumbling o're,
But raving mad, with hideous roar,
Confusion on the Alps it hurls.

He hopes when Fortune proves adverse,
He, when she's kind, fears a reverse;
Whom sacred wisdom doth direct;
Since Iove so oft makes Tempests rise,
Whose Fury shakes his native Skies,
Can man a settled state expect?

But if the gods prove angry now,
They'll one day with unclouded brow
Dart joys into thy Soul again:
Those gods as wretched were as we,
If they should always angry be,
And always hear their Slaves complain.

By bearing bravely the worst state,
Shew thou deserv'st a better fate:
But if the wind comes fair about,
Why then suspect the flattering gale;
When it seems merriest, reef your Sail,
And for the Sands look sharply out.