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Click on the verses to see them in context. Shakespeare's plays are available from the Gutenberg Projet.

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Conscience is but a word that cowards use,

 Of treasonous malice. And I for comfort have but one false glass, Clarence is come,--false, fleeting, perjur'd Clarence,-- That stabb'd me in the field by Tewksbury;-- Seize on him, Furies, take him to your torments! A dagger of the mind, a false creation, O, treachery! Fly, good Fleance, fly, fly, fly! Who spake aloud, 'What scourge for perjury And ever three parts coward,--I do not know That very frankly he confess'd his treasons; Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury, God keep you from them and from such false friends! For false forswearing, and for murder too: Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries, 
  • False-boding woman, end thy frantic curse,
 Affection makes him false, he speaks not true: No less in truth than life: my first false speaking We speak no treason, man;--we say the king Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury, Perjury, perjury, in the high'st degree; Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; I never was nor never will be false.