Few love to hear the sins they love to act

He's got 99 problems and sea is definitely one.

Whenever you're feeling low, just read some of "The Painfull Aduentures of Pericles, Prince of Tyre" and you'll realize that your lot ain't that bad. Pericles gives Job a run for his money. He's shipwrecked, his wife dies, he gives up his daughter for adoption, vows not to shave, hears that his daughter is dead fourteen years later, and falls into nearly catatonic depression. Then this very hirsute gentleman is serenaded by his not-dead daughter and reunited with his not-dead wife and all is well. Only Doctor Who/Sherlock writers Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss write more infamously heartbreaking tales.

The story starts out innocently enough (or as innocently as Greek adventures go) with Antiochus' riddle. He offers his daughter's hand in marriage to whomever can solve it, but failure assures that the suitor's head will join the rest that so boldy furnish the anti feng-shui decor of the palace. Brave Pericles arrives and checks out the goods, then says he accepts the challenge of the riddle. He figures it out almost instantly: Antiochus is committing incest with his own daughter. This totally sinks Pericles' proverbial boat (he sinks his literal boat later), and he spouts this very subtle speech, delivered with a wink, which lets Antiochus know that the jig is up:

Pericles, Prince of Tyre, Act I, Sc. I

Pericles: Great king,

Few love to hear the sins they love to act;
'Twould braid yourself too near for me to tell it.
Who has a book of all that monarchs do,
He's more secure to keep it shut than shown:
For vice repeated is like the wandering wind.
Blows dust in other's eyes, to spread itself;
And yet the end of all is bought thus dear,
The breath is gone, and the sore eyes see clear:
To stop the air would hurt them. The blind mole casts
Copp'd hills towards heaven, to tell the earth is throng'd
By man's oppression; and the poor worm doth die for't.
Kings are earth's gods; in vice their law's their will;
And if Jove stray, who dares say Jove doth ill?
It is enough you know; and it is fit,
What being more known grows worse, to smother it.
All love the womb that their first being bred,
Then give my tongue like leave to love my head.