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.