Of thy life, Thomas, this compass well mark

Of thy life, Thomas, this compass well mark:
Not aye with full sails the high seas to beat,
Ne by coward dread, in shunning storms dark,
On shallow shores thy keel in peril freat. [to fret]
Whoso gladly halseth the golden mean [to embrace]
Void of dangers advisedly hath his home,
Not with loathsome muck, as a den unclean,
Nor palace-like whereat disdain may glome. [frown]
The lofty pine the great wind often rives;
With violenter sway fallen turrets steep;
Lightnings assault the high mountains and clives. [splits]
A heart well stayed, in overthwarts deep
Hopeth amends; in sweet doth fear the sour.
God that sendeth, withdraweth winter sharp.
Now ill, not aye thus. Once Phoebus to lour
With bow unbent shall cease, and frame to harp
His voice. In straight estate appear thou stout;
And so wisely, when lucky gale of wind
All thy puffed sails shall fill, look well about,
Take in a reef. Haste is waste, proof doth find.