To Them Who Trust in Fortune - St. Thomas More - Poem

Thou that art proud of honour, shape, or kin,
That heapest-up this wretched world its treasure,
Thy fingers shrin'd with gold, thy tawny skin
With fresh apparel garnish'd out of measure,
And weenest1 to have Fortune at thy pleasure;
Cast-up thine eye, and look how slipp'ry chance
Illudeth2 her men with change and variance.

Sometime she look'th as lovely, fair, and bright
As goodly Venus, mother of Cupid,
She becketh and she smil'th on every wight;3
But this chear4 feigned may not long abide,
There com'th a cloud, and farewell all our pride.
Like any serpent she beginn'th to swell
And look'th as fierce as any fury of hell.

Yet for all that, we brittle men are fain,5
So wretched is our nature and so blind,
As soon as fortune list6 to laugh again
With fair countenance and deceitful mind,
To crouch and kneel and gape after the wind;
Not one or twain,7 but thousands in a rout,
Like swarming bees, come flickering her about.

Then as a bait she bringeth forth her ware,
Silver and gold, rich pearl and precious stone,
On which the amazed people gaze and stare
And gape therefore as dogs do for a bone.
Fortune at them laugheth, and in her throne
Amid her treasure and wavering riches
Proudly she heaveth as lady and empress.

Fast by her side doth weary Labour stand
Pale Fear also, and sorrow all bewept,
Disdain and Hatred on that other hand
Eke8 restless watch, from sleep with travail kept,
His eyes drowsy and looking as he slept.
Before her standeth Danger and Envy,
Flatt'ry, Deceit, Mischief, and Tyranny.