Yield not thy neck To fortunes yoke, but let thy dauntless mind Still ride in triumph over all mischance.
William ShakespeareTo be in love, where scorn is bought with groans; coy looks, with heart-sore sighs; one fading moment's mirth
William ShakespeareWell could he ride, and often men would say, "That horse his mettle from his rider takes: Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes!" And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by the well-doing steed.
William Shakespeare