I pray thee, cease thy counsel,
Which falls into mine ears as profitless
As water in a sieve:  give not me counsel;
Nor let no comforter delight mine ear
But such a one whose wrongs do suit with mine.

But there is no such man:  for, brother, men
Can counsel and speak comfort to that grief
Which they themselves not feel; but, tasting it,
Their counsel turns to passion.

No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience
To those that wring under the load of sorrow,
But no man's virtue nor sufficiency
To be so moral when he shall endure
The like himself.