That which green wounds receive from sovereign balm:
Patience, my lord. Why, 'tis the soul of peace.
Of all the virtues 'tis near'st kin to heaven.
It makes men look like gods; the best of men
That e'er wore earth about him was a sufferer,
A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil spirit,
The first true gentleman that ever breath'd.
The stock of patience then cannot be poor;
All it desires, it has: what monarch more?
It is the greatest enemy to law
That can be, for it doth embrace all wrongs,
And so chains up lawyers' and women's tongues.
'Tis the perpetual prisoner's liberty,
His walks and orchards; 'tis the bondslave's freedom,
And makes him seem proud of each iron chain,
As tho' he wore it more for state than pain.
It is the beggar's music, and thus sings,
Although their bodies beg, their souls are kings.
Oh, my dread liege, it is the sap of bliss,
Rears us aloft, makes men and angels kiss,
And, last of all, to end a household strife,
It is the honey 'gainst a waspish wife!
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