Otium sortem exspectat
A Windmill faire, that all thinges had to grinde,
Which man coulde make, the father lefte his sonne:
The corne was broughte, there nothing lack'd, but winde,
And Customers, did freshlie to it ronne:
The sonne repoas'de his truste uppon the mill,
And dailie dream'de on plentie at his will.
Thus he secure, a while his daies did passe,
And did not seeke, for other staie at all:
And thoughe hee founde, howe coulde the profit was,
And that soe small, unto his share did fall:
Yet still he hoap'de, for better lucke at laste,
And put his truste, in eache uncertaine blaste.
Unto this foole, they maie compared bee,
Which idlie live, and vainlie hoape for happe:
For while they hope, with wante they pine, wee see:
And verie fewe, are lul'de on fortunes lappe:
While grasse doth growe, the courser faire doth sterve,
And fortune sield, the wishers turne doth serve.