Had you not come, not by his word, but writing,200
Would I have sworne to give it him againe,
And pawn'd mine honour to him for a paper.
Tam. See, how he flies me still! tis a foule heart
That feares his owne hand. Good my lord, make haste
To see the dangerous paper: papers hold[205]
Oft-times the formes and copies of our soules,
And (though the world despise them) are the prizes
Of all our honors; make your honour then
A hostage for it, and with it conferre