William Shakespeare

Trust not the physician;
His antidotes are poison, and he slays
More than you rob.

Trust not the physician;
His antidotes are poison, and he slays
More than you rob.

Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time,
Ere humane stature purged the gentle weal;
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Blood hath been shed ere now, i' th' olden time,
Ere humane stature purged the gentle weal;
Ay, and since too, murders have been performed
Too terrible for the ear. The time has been
That, when the brains were out, the man would die,
And there an end. But now they rise again,
With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,
And push us from our stools. This is more strange
Than such a murder is.

When workmen strive to do better than well,
They do confound their skill in covetousness,
And oftentimes read more

When workmen strive to do better than well,
They do confound their skill in covetousness,
And oftentimes excusing of a fault
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse,
As patches set upon a little breach
Discredit more in hiding of the fault
Than did the fault before it was so patched.

And, oftentimes, excusing of a fault,
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.

And, oftentimes, excusing of a fault,
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.

Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall.