The purest treasure mortal times afford Is spotless reputation: that away, Men are but gilded loam or painted clay. A jewel in a ten-times-barr'd-up chest Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast. Mine honour is my life; both grow in one: Take honour from me, and my life is done: Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try; In that I live and for that will I die.
As thus, to drop them still upon one place, Till they have fretted us a pair of graves Within the earth; and, therein laid,—there lies Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes.