Could beauty, my lord, have better commerce than with honesty?
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible to feelings as to sight?
Speak me fair in death.
O Death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
False face must hide what the false heart doth know.
Gives not the hawthorn bush a sweeter shade To shepherds, looking on their silly sheep, Than doth a rich embroider'd canopy To kings that fear their subjects treachery?