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Times goe by turnes.
THE lopped tree in time may grow againe,
Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower:
The soriest wight may finde release of paine,
The dryest soyle sucke in some moystning shower.
Times goe by turnes, and chaunces chaunge by course:
From foule to faire: from better happe, to worse.
The sea of fortune doth not euer flowe,
She drawes her fauours to the lowest ebbe:
Her tydes hath equall times to come and goe,
Her Loome doth weaue the fine and coursest webbe.
No ioy so great, but runneth to an end:
No hap so hard, but may in fine amend.
Not alwaies fall of leafe, nor euer spring,
No endles night, yet not eternall day:
The saddest birds a season find to sing,
The roughest storme a calme may soone alay.
Thus with succeeding turnes God tempereth all:
That man may hope to rise, yet feare to fall.
A chaunce may winne that by mischaunce was lost,
The net that holdes no great, takes little fish;
In some things all, in all things none are crost,
Fewe, all they neede: but none, haue all they wish,
Vnmedled ioyes here to no man befall,
VVho least, hath some, who most, hath neuer all.