HIGH-SPIRITED friend, <br />I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: <br /> Your fate hath found <br />A gentler and more agile hand to tend <br />The cure of that which is but corporal; <br />And doubtful days, which were named critical, <br /> Have made their fairest flight <br /> And now are out of sight. <br />Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind <br /> Wrapp'd in this paper lie, <br />Which in the taking if you misapply, <br /> You are unkind. <br /> <br /> Your covetous hand, <br />Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd, <br /> Must now be rein'd. <br />True valour doth her own renown command <br />In one full action; nor have you now more <br />To do, than be a husband of that store. <br /> Think but how dear you bought <br /> This fame which you have caught: <br />Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth. <br /> 'Tis wisdom, and that high, <br />For men to use their fortune reverently, <br /> Even in youth.<br /><br />Benjamin Jonson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-noble-balm/
