Who hath his ear from rumours freed; Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who envies none whom chance doth raise, Or vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given with praise, Nor rules of state but rules of good;
Who God doth late and early pray More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a well-chosen book or friend—
This man is free from servile bands Of hope to rise or fear to fall: Lord of himself, though not of lands, And, having nothing, yet hath all.
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.