And be these juggling friends no more believ'd, That palter with us in a double sense; That keep the word of promise to our ear And break it to our hope.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more; Or close the wall with our English dead.
For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous, incharitable dog!
Love is not love that alters when it alteration finds.