He is the half part of a blessed man,

Left to be finished by such as she;

And she a fair divided excellence,

Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King John. Act ii. Sc. 1.

Still constant is a wondrous excellence.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Sonnet cv.

Base Envy withers at another's joy,

And hates that excellence it cannot reach.

James Thomson (1700-1748): The Seasons. Spring. Line 283.

Thyself and thy belongings

Are not thine own so proper as to waste

Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.

Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,

Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues

Did not go forth of us, 't were all alike

As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch'd

But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends

The smallest scruple of her excellence

But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

Herself the glory of a creditor,

Both thanks and use.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Measure for Measure. Act i. Sc. 1.