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Ben Jonson - The Noble Balm
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HIGH-SPIRITED friend,
I send nor balms nor cor`sives to your wound:
        Your fate hath found
A gentler and more agile hand to tend
The cure of that which is but corporal;
And doubtful days, which were named critical,
        Have made their fairest flight
        And now are out of sight.
Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind
        Wrapp`d in this paper lie,
Which in the taking if you misapply,
        You are unkind.

        Your covetous hand,
Happy in that fair honour it hath gain`d,
        Must now be rein`d.
True valour doth her own renown command
In one full action; nor have you now more
To do, than be a husband of that store.
        Think but how dear you bought
        This fame which you have caught:
Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth.
        `Tis wisdom, and that high,
For men to use their fortune reverently,
        Even in youth.
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