Unto sick and prison’d thoughts we give sudden truce:
Not a poor town window
Loves its sickliest planting,
But its wall speaks loftier truth than Babylonian vaunting.
Sagest yet the uses,
Mix’d with our sweet juices,
Whether man or May-fly, profit of the balm,
As fair fingers heal’d
Knights from the olden field
We hold cups of mightiest force to give the wildest calm.