In struggling with misfortunes lies the true proof of virtue.
Though this be madness, yet there is method in't.
I'll note you in my book of memory.
O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O limed soul that, struggling to be free, art more engaged! Help, angels! Make assay! Bow, stubborn knees! and, heart with strings of steel, be soft as sinews of the new-born babe!
Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.
Prepare for mirth, for mirth becomes a feast.