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How cheerfully on the false trail they cry! I fear me both are false. I'll not meddle with it,--it makes a man coward; I never was nor never will be false. The treacherous instrument is in thy hand, A dagger of the mind, a false creation, Thou mayst prove false; at lovers' perjuries, Who spake aloud, 'What scourge for perjury So do not I: go, coward as thou art.-- By the false faith of him whom most I trusted; Didst break that vow; and with thy treacherous blade No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur'd, Poor Clarence, by thy guile betray'd to death!