The Golden Mean

Of thy lyfe, Thomas, this compasse well marke:
Not aye with full sayles the hye seas to beat;
Ne by coward dred, in shonning stormes dark,
On shalow shores thy keel in perill freat.

Who so gladly halseth the golden meane,
Voyde of dangers aduisdly hath his home
Not with lothsom muck, as a den vncleane,
Nor palacelyke, wherat disdayn may glome.

The lofty pyne the great winde often riues;
With violenter swey falne turrets stepe;
Lightninges assault the hye mountains and cliues.
A hart well stayd, in ouerthwartes depe,

Hopeth amendes; in swete, doth feare the sowre.
God, that sendeth, withdrawth winter sharp.
Now ill, not aye thus: once Phebus to lowre
With bow vnbent shall cesse, and frame to harp

His voyce. In straite estate appere thou stout;
And so wisely, when lucky gale of winde
All thy puft sailes shall fil, loke well about,
Take in a ryft; hast is wast, profe doth finde.