The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow,
She draws her favours to the lowest ebb;
Her tide hath equal times to come and go,
Her loom doth weave the fine and coursest web;
No joy so great but runneth to an end,
No happ so hard but may in fine amend.
Not always fall of leaf nor ever Spring,
No endless night yet not eternal day;
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storm a calm may soon allay;
Thus with succeeding turns God tempereth all,
That Man may hope to rise yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost;
The net that holds no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost,
Few all they need, but none have all they wish;
Unmeddled joys here to no man befall,
Who least hath some, who most hath never all.
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