by A. E. Housman
If it 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.