English poem
The Noble Balm
by Ben Jonson
HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: 4Your 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, 4Have made their fairest flight 4And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind 4Wrapp'd in this paper lie, Which in the taking if you misapply, 4You are unkind. 4Your covetous hand, Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd, 4Must 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. 4Think but how dear you bought 4This fame which you have caught: Such thoughts will make you more in love with truth. 4'Tis wisdom, and that high, For men to use their fortune reverently, 4Even in youth.