With Patience, I the Storme Sustaine; For, Sun-shine Still Doth Follow Raine
THe little Squirrell, hath no other Food
Then that which Natures thrifty hand provides;
And, in purveying up and downe the Wood,
She many cold wet Stormes, for that, abides.
She lyes not heartlesse in her Mossie Dray,
Nor feareth to adventure through the Raine;
But skippeth out, and beares it as she may,
Vntill the Season waxeth calme againe.
Right thus, have I and others, often far’d;
For, when we first into the World were brought,
We found but little, for our Vse prepar’d,
Save that, which by Hard-Labour, must be sought.
In many Stormes, unheeded, we are faine
To seeke out needfull things; and, smilingly
To jest, at what some others would complaine:
That, none might laugh at our Necessity.
Yea, some have liv’d on Huskes, whil’st others fed
On that which was their Labours due Reward;
And, were pursu’d (till they almost were dead)
Without the Worlds Compassion or Regard.
Yet, by Enduring, they out liv’d the Blast
Of Adverse-Fortune; and, with good successe,
(Expecting calmer Seasons) at the last,
Arrived at the Port of Happinesse.
Their Suffring-much, hath made their Suffrings none;
And brought forth Hopes, by which, perceive they may,
That Nights have but their Turnes; and (they once gone)
Their Darkenesse, makes much welcomer, the Day.
All Griefe shall have an ending, I am sure;
And, therefore, I with Patience, will Endure.