Thou whoreson, senseless villain!
Let me confess that we two must be twain, although our undivided loves are one.
In thy face I see the map of honour, truth and loyalty.
What is aught but as 'tis valued?
Tired with all these for restful death I cry, As to behold desert a beggar born, And needy nothing trimmed in jollity, And purest faith unhappily forsworn.
An honest man, sir, is able to speak for himself, when a knave is not.