Dum potes, vive
The Cuttle fishe, that likes the muddie crickes,
To which, the sea dothe flowe at everie tide:
For to escape the fishers ginnes, and trickes,
Dame nature did this straunge devise provide:
That when he seeth, his foe to lie in wayte,
Hee muddes the streame, and safelie scapes deceyte.
Then man: in whome doth sacred reason reste,
All waies, and meanes, shoulde use to save his life:
Not wilfullie, the same for to detest,
Nor rashlie runne, when tyrauntes rage with strife:
But constant stande, abyding sweete or sower,
Untill the Lorde appoynte an happie hower.