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I am justly kill'd with mine own treachery. Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury, Her husband, knave:--wouldst thou betray me? By the false faith of him whom most I trusted; That treason can but peep to what it would, Affection makes him false, he speaks not true: Conscience is but a word that cowards use, Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury, That wouldst thou holily; wouldst not play false, Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury, Or my true heart with treacherous revolt Thou canst not then be false to any man. How cheerfully on the false trail they cry!