Give me a spirit that on this life's rough sea Loves t'have his sails filled with a lusty wind, Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack, And his ship run on her side so low That she drinks water, and her keel plows air.
Fate's such a shrewish thing.
Danger, the spur of all great minds.
Black is a pearl in a woman's eye.
An ill weed grows apace.
Be free all worthy spirits, and stretch yourselves, for greatness and for height.