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.

To die is landing on some silent shore

Where billows never break, nor tempests roar;

Ere well we feel the friendly stroke, 't is o'er.

Samuel Garth (1670-1719): The Dispensary. Canto iii. Line 225.

The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,

Burn'd on the water; the poop was beaten gold;

Purple the sails, and so perfumed that

The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,

Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made

The water which they beat to follow faster,

As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,

It beggar'd all description.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Antony and Cleopatra. Act ii. Sc. 2.

Their fatal hands

No second stroke intend.

John Milton (1608-1674): Paradise Lost. Book ii. Line 712.

And often did beguile her of her tears,

When I did speak of some distressful stroke

That my youth suffer'd. My story being done,

She gave me for my pains a world of sighs;

She swore, in faith, 't was strange, 't was passing strange.

'T was pitiful, 't was wondrous pitiful;

She wish'd she had not heard it, yet she wish'd

That Heaven had made her such a man; she thank'd me,

And bade me, if I had a friend that loved her,

I should but teach him how to tell my story,

And that would woo her. Upon this hint I spake:

She loved me for the dangers I had pass'd,

And I loved her that she did pity them.

This only is the witchcraft I have used.

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