If by chance your eye offend you, 
Pluck it out, lad, and be sound: 
'Twill hurt, but here are salves to friend you, 
And many a balsam grows on ground. 

And if your hand or foot offend you, 
Cut it off, lad, and be whole; 
But play the man, stand up and end you, 
When your sickness is your soul.