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307

[You better sure shall live, not evermore]

[_]

Translated out of Horace, which beginnes Rectius vives.

You better sure shall live, not evermore
Trying high seas, nor while seas rage you flee,
Pressing too much upon ill harbourd shore.
The golden meane who loves, lives safely free
From filth of foreworne house, and quiet lives,
Releast from Court, where envie needes must be.
The windes most oft the hugest Pine-tree greeves:
The stately towers come downe with greater fall:
The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleeves:
Evill happes do fill with hope, good happes appall
With feare of change, the courage well preparde:
Fowle Winters as they come, away they shall.
Though present times and past with evils be snarde,
They shall not last: with Citherne silent muse,
Apollo wakes, and bow hath sometime sparde.
In hard estate with stowt shew valor use,
The same man still in whom wise doome prevailes,
In too full winde draw in thy swelling sailes.