HIGH-SPIRITED friend, I send nor balms nor cor'sives to your wound: Your 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, Have made their fairest flight And now are out of sight. Yet doth some wholesome physic for the mind Wrapp'd in this paper lie, Which in the taking if you misapply, You are unkind. Your covetous hand, Happy in that fair honour it hath gain'd, Must 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. Think but how dear you bought This fame 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE CORNELIAN by GEORGE GORDON BYRON OF A BAD SINGER; EPIGRAM by SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE UNDER HOUSE ARREST IN WINDSOR by HENRY HOWARD ITALY SWEET TOO! by JOHN KEATS A NICE CORRESPONDENT by FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON ROSAMOND: KING HENRY'S SONG by JOSEPH ADDISON THE CASTLE RUINS by WILLIAM BARNES |