And you tell me that he shall die [for it].
Ang. He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.
145 Isab. I know your virtue hath a license in’t,
Which seems a little fouler than it is,
To pluck on others.
Ang.
Believe me, on mine honour,
My words express my purpose.
Isab. Ha! little honour to be much believed,
II. 4.
150 And most pernicious purpose!—Seeming, seeming!—