Tender-handed stroke a nettle,

And it stings you for your pains;

Grasp it like a man of mettle,

And it soft as silk remains.

'T is the same with common natures:

Use 'em kindly, they rebel;

But be rough as nutmeg-graters,

And the rogues obey you well.

Aaron Hill (1685-1750): Verses written on a window in Scotland.

Her father loved me; oft invited me;

Still question'd me the story of my life,

From year to year, the battles, sieges, fortunes,

That I have passed.

I ran it through, even from my boyish days,

To the very moment that he bade me tell it:

Wherein I spake of most disastrous chances,

Of moving accidents by flood and field,

Of hair-breadth 'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach,

Of being taken by the insolent foe

And sold to slavery, of my redemption thence

And portance in my travels' history;

Wherein of antres vast and deserts idle,

Rough quarries, rocks and hills whose heads touch heaven,

It was my hint to speak,—such was the process;

And of the Cannibals that each other eat,

The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads

Do grow beneath their shoulders. This to hear

Would Desdemona seriously incline.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act i. Sc. 3.

Not all the water in the rough rude sea

Can wash the balm off from an anointed king.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Richard II. Act iii. Sc. 2.

There's a divinity that shapes our ends,

Rough-hew them how we will.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act v. Sc. 2.

Not once or twice in our rough-island story

The path of duty was the way to glory.

Alfred Tennyson (1809-1892): Ode on the Death of the Duke of Wellington. Stanza 8.