The insolence of office.

Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon, Who is already sick and pale with grief That thou, her maid, art far more fair than she. . . .

The amity that wisdom knits not, folly may easily untie.

Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?

One good deed dying tongueless Slaughters a thousand waiting upon that. Our praises are our wages.

The fool multitude, that choose by show, not learning more than the fond eye doth teach.

O good old man, how well in thee appears The constant service of the antique world, When service sweat for duty, not for meed! Thou art not for the fashion of these times, Where none will sweat but for promotion, And having that do choke their service up Even with the having. . . .