William Shakespeare

Rumor is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,
And of so easy and so plain a read more

Rumor is a pipe
Blown by surmises, jealousies, conjectures,
And of so easy and so plain a stop
That the blunt monster with uncounted heads,
The still-discordant wavering multitude,
Can play upon it.

Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,—how then? Can honour set read more

Honour pricks me on. Yea, but how if honour prick me off when I come on,—how then? Can honour set to a leg? no: or an arm? no: or take away the grief of a wound? no. Honour hath no skill in surgery, then? no. What is honour? a word. What is in that word honour; what is that honour? air. A trim reckoning! Who hath it? he that died o' Wednesday. Doth he feel it? no. Doth he hear it? no. 'T is insensible, then? yea, to the dead. But will it not live with the living? no. Why? detraction will not suffer it. Therefore I 'll none of it. Honour is a mere scutcheon. And so ends my catechism. -King Henry IV. Part I. Act v. Sc. 1.

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, brags of his substance: they are but beggars who can count their read more

Conceit, more rich in matter than in words, brags of his substance: they are but beggars who can count their worth.

If't be summer news,
Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that count'nance still.

If't be summer news,
Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that count'nance still.

His nature is too noble for the world.
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Or read more

His nature is too noble for the world.
He would not flatter Neptune for his trident,
Or Jove for's power to thunder.