From Horace, Book II. Ode X., beginning "Rectius vives, Licini," &c.

You better sure shall live, not evermore Trying high seas; nor, while seas rage you flee, Pressing too much upon ill-harboured shore.

The golden mean who loves, lives safely free From filth of foreworn house, and quiet lives, Released from court, where envy needs must be.

The wind most oft the hugest pine tree grieves: The stately towers come down with greater fall: The highest hills the bolt of thunder cleaves.

Evil haps do fill with hope, good haps appall With fear of change, the courage well prepared: Foul winters, as they come, away they shall.

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