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.

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Richard II. Act ii. Sc. 3.

For this relief much thanks: 't is bitter cold,

And I am sick at heart.

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

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;

And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.

Alfred Bunn (1790-1860): Marco Bozzaris.

A man that fortune's buffets and rewards

Hast ta'en with equal thanks.

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

Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor.

William Shakespeare (1564-1616): King Richard II. Act ii. Sc. 3.

Words are but empty thanks.

Colley Cibber (1671-1757): Woman's Wit. Act v.