William Shakespeare on Customs

“The tyrant custom, most grave senators, Hath made the flinty and steel couch of war My thrice-driven bed of down.”

“But to my mind, though I am native here, And to the manner born, it is a custom More honor'd in the breach than the observance.”

“That monster, custom, * * * is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery, That aptly is put on.”

“Custom calls me to 't: What custom wills, in all things should we do't, The dust on antique time would lie unswept, And mountainous error be too highly heap't For truth to o'erpeer.”