Ful wel she sange the service devine,

Entuned in hire nose ful swetely;

And Frenche she spake ful fayre and fetisly,

After the scole of Stratford atte bowe,

For Frenche of Paris was to hire unknowe.

Geoffrey Chaucer (1328-1400): Canterbury Tales. Prologue. Line 122.

I have done the state some service, and they know 't.

No more of that. I pray you, in your letters,

When you shall these unlucky deeds relate,

Speak of me as I am; nothing extenuate,

Nor set down aught in malice. Then, must you speak

Of one that loved not wisely but too well;

Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought

Perplex'd in the extreme; of one whose hand,

Like the base Indian, threw a pearl away

Richer than all his tribe; of one whose subdued eyes,

Albeit unused to the melting mood,

Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees

Their medicinal gum.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Othello. Act v. Sc. 2.

Service is no heritage.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): All's Well that Ends Well. Act i. Sc. 3.

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.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 3.

Small service is true service while it lasts.

Of humblest friends, bright creature! scorn not one:

The daisy, by the shadow that it casts,

Protects the lingering dewdrop from the sun.

William Wordsworth (1770-1850): To a Child. Written in her Album.

His head,

Not yet by time completely silver'd o'er,

Bespoke him past the bounds of freakish youth,

But strong for service still, and unimpair'd.

William Cowper (1731-1800): The Task. Book ii. The Timepiece. Line 702.

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.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): As You Like It. Act ii. Sc. 3.

'T is the curse of service,

Preferment goes by letter and affection,

And not by old gradation, where each second

Stood heir to the first.

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

Farewell! a long farewell, to all my greatness!

This is the state of man: to-day he puts forth

The tender leaves of hopes; to-morrow blossoms,

And bears his blushing honours thick upon him;

The third day comes a frost, a killing frost,

And when he thinks, good easy man, full surely

His greatness is a-ripening, nips his root,

And then he falls, as I do. I have ventured,

Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders,

This many summers in a sea of glory,

But far beyond my depth: my high-blown pride

At length broke under me and now has left me,

Weary and old with service, to the mercy

Of a rude stream, that must forever hide me.

Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye:

I feel my heart new opened. O, how wretched

Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours!

There is betwixt that smile we would aspire to,

That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin,

More pangs and fears than wars or women have:

And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer,

Never to hope again.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Henry VIII. Act iii. Sc. 2.

It did me yeoman's service.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): Hamlet. Act v. Sc. 2.