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.
-- William Shakespeare (1564-1616), King Henry IV
-- Act v, Sc. 1
