While thou didst spend thyself upon thy books
And knewest scarce how lightsome pleasure looks?
Now from thy grafting pluck the fruit and save
Something of value from frail nature’s grave.
To other men in sorrow thou hast shown
The comfort left them: hast none for thine own?
Now, master, heal thyself: time is the cure
For all; but he whose wisdom doth abjure
The common ways, he should anticipate
The healing for which other men must wait.