_Wotton._
III
TRUE BALM
High-spirited friend,
I send nor balms nor corsives to your wound;
Your faith 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,
Wrapped in this paper lie,
Which in the taking if you misapply
You are unkind.
Your covetous hand,
Happy in that fair honour it hath gained,
Must now be reined.
True valour doth her own renown commend
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 same 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.
_Jonson._
IV
HONOUR IN BUD
It is not growing like a tree
In bulk doth make man better be:
A lily of a day
Is fairer far in May:
Although it fall and die that night,
It was the plant and flower of light.
_Jonson.
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