Horace. Book Ii. Ode 10 Poem by Maria Frances Cecilia Cowper

Sail not too rashly out to sea,
My friend, nor, fearful of the roar
Of winds and waters, hug too close
The rocky shore.

Who loves the golden middle way,
Escapes the poor man's wants and cares,
Escapes the envious glance that waits
On millionaires.

High towers fall with mightier crash,
With the tall pine more fiercely fights
The tempest : 'tis the mountain tops
The lightning smites.

Fear in good luck, but hope in ill,
Prepared for all that chance may bring
The God that gives us winter now
Will send the Spring.

Misfortune comes not every day;
Apollo clears his brow, and lo !
The sounding lyre takes the place
Of bended bow.

Should difficulties come, be bold
And play the man : should favouring gale
Too kindly blow, be wise in time,
And reef your sails.