Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing. 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands; But he that filches from me my good name Robs me of that which not enriches him And makes me poor indeed.

Do villainy, do, since you protest to do't, Like workmen. I'll example you with thievery: The sun's a thief, and with his great attraction Robs the vast sea; the moon's an arrant thief, And her pale fire she snatches from the sun; The sea's a thief, whose liquid surges resolves The moon into salt tears; the earth's a thief, That feeds and breeds by a composture stol'n From gen'ral excrement.

A plague upon it when thieves cannot be true one to another!

A murderer and a villain, A slave that is not twentieth part the tithe Of your precedent lord, a vice of kings, A cutpurse of the empire and the rule, That from a shelf the precious diadem stole And put it in his pocket--

O villain, thou hast stol'n both mine office and my name! The one ne'er got me credit, the other mickle blame.

The robbed that smiles steals something from the thief, He robs himself that spends a bootless grief.