Shakespeare, 11th February

Here feel we but the penalty of Adam,

The seasons' difference, as the icy fang

And churlish chiding of the winter's wind,

Which, when it bites and blows upon my body,

Even till I shrink with cold, I smile and say

This is no flattery: these are counsellors

That feelingly persuade me what I am.

As You Like It, Act ii., Sc. I.