No princely pomp, no wealthy store, No force to win the victory, No wily wit to salve a sore, No shape to feed each gazing eye; To none of these I yield as thrall. For why my mind doth serve for all.
Patience is sorrow's salve.
salve, magna parens.
salve to thy sores, apt words have power to suage The tumours of a troubl'd mind, And are as Balm to fester'd wounds.john milton