|Fame is something which must be won; honor is something which must not be lost.
Without money honor is merely a disease.
The louder he talked of his honor, the faster we counted our spoons.
As to honour- you know- it’s a very fine medieval inheritance, which women never got hold of. It wasn’t theirs.
Honor and shame from no condition rise; act well your part, there all the honor lies.
Honor’s a sacred tie, the noble mind’s distinguishing perfection, that aids and strengthens virtue where it meets her, and imitates her actions where she is not.
Honor is not a matter of any man’s calling merely, but rather of his own actions in it.
That nation is worthless that will not, with pleasure, venture all for its honor.
Mine honor is my life; both grow in one; take honor from me and my life is done.
Woman’s honor is nice as ermine; it will not bear a soil.
Honor is unstable, and seldom the same; for she feeds upon opinion, and is as fickle as her food. She builds a lofty structure on the sandy foundation of the esteem of those who are of all beings the most subject to change.
If it be a sin to covet honor, I am the most offensive soul alive.
Purity is the feminine, truth the masculine of honor.
Let honor be to us as strong an obligation as necessity is to others.
Honor is most capricious in her rewards. She feeds us with air, and often pulls down our house to build our monument.
Our own heart, and not other men’s opinion, forms our true honor.
Hereditary honors are a noble and splendid treasure to descendants.
Honor is like the eye, which cannot suffer the least impurity without damage. It is a precious stone, the price of which is lessened by a single flaw.
The giving of riches and honors to a wicked man is like giving strong wine to him that hath a fever.
When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, the post of honor is a private station.
The chastity of honor which felt a stain like a wound.
Better to doe ten thousand deaths than wound my honor.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man holds honor far more precious dear than life.
When honor’s lost, tis a relief to die;
Death’s but a sure retreat from infamy.
I could not love thee. Dear, so much
Lov’d I not honor more.
Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part: there all the honour lies.
By heaven, methinks it were an easy leap
To pluck bright honour from the pale-faced moon,
Or drive into the bottom of the deep,
Where fathom-line could never touch the ground,
And pluck up drowned honour by the locks.
Well, honour is the subject of my story
I cannot tell what you and other men
Think of this life; but, for my single self,
I had as life not be as live to be
In awe of such a thing as I myself.
When faith is lost, when honor dies, the man is deadi.