"Touch not the hand they stretch to you;
The falsely-profferd cup put by;
Will you believe a coward true?
Or taste the poison'd draught, to die?
Their friendship is a lurking snare;
Their honor but an idle breath;
Their smile the smile that traitors wear;
Their love is hate, their life is death.
"And till your last white foe shall kneel,
And in his coward pangs expire—