Aere quandoque salutem redimendam
The Beaver slowe, that present daunger feares,
And sees a farre, the eager howndes to haste,
With grindinge teethe, his stoanes awaie he teares,
And throwes them downe, to those that have him chaste:
Which beinge founde, the hunter dothe retire,
For that he hath, the fruicte of his desire.
Theise, soveraigne are diseases for to heale,
And for mannes healthe, from countries farre are broughte,
And if herein, the writers doe not faile,
This beaste doth knowe, that he therefore is soughte:
And afterwarde, if anie doe him course,
He shewes his wante, to moove them to remorse.
Thus, to his paine he doth his life preserve:
Which teacheth us, if foes doe us pursue,
Wee showlde not care, if goodes for life maie serve,
Althoughe we give, our treasure to a jewe:
No ritches, maie with life of man compare,
They are but drosse, and fortunes brittle ware.
Then life redeeme, althoughe with all thow haste,
Thoughe thow arte pore, yet seeke, and thow shalte finde,
Those ritches pure, that evermore shall laste,
Which are the goodes, and treasures, of the minde:
Noe man so pore, but god can blesse his daies,
Whoe patient JOB, did from the dunghill raise.