020 For. Nothing but fair is that which you inherit.
Prin. See, see, my beauty will be saved by merit!
[022] O heresy in fair, fit for these days!
[023] A giving hand, though foul, shall have fair praise.
But come, the bow: now mercy goes to kill,
025 And shooting well is then accounted ill.
Thus will I save my credit in the shoot:
[027] Not wounding, pity would not let me do’t;
If wounding, then it was to show my skill,
That more for praise than purpose meant to kill.