1 Why, now you speak Like a good child and a true gentleman.
2 Then what I have to do Will want true colour; tears perchance for blood.
3 To my sick soul, as sin's true nature is, Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss.
4 Tis most true; And he beseech'd me to entreat your Majesties To hear and see the matter.
5 Before my God, I might not this believe Without the sensible and true avouch Of mine own eyes.
6 As I do live, my honour'd lord, 'tis true; And we did think it writ down in our duty To let you know of it.'
7 Marry, I'll teach you; think yourself a baby; That you have ta'en these tenders for true pay, Which are not sterling.
8 This above all: to thine own self be true; And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man.
9 Nor do we find him forward to be sounded, But with a crafty madness keeps aloof When we would bring him on to some confession Of his true state.
10 That drop of blood that's calm proclaims me bastard; Cries cuckold to my father, brands the harlot Even here between the chaste unsmirched brow Of my true mother.
11 But 'tis not so above; There is no shuffling, there the action lies In his true nature, and we ourselves compell'd Even to the teeth and forehead of our faults, To give in evidence.'
12 This to me In dreadful secrecy impart they did, And I with them the third night kept the watch, Where, as they had deliver'd, both in time, Form of the thing, each word made true and good, The apparition comes.
13 But, in the verity of extolment, I take him to be a soul of great article and his infusion of such dearth and rareness as, to make true diction of him, his semblable is his mirror and who else would trace him his umbrage, nothing more.