[The] instruments [that] feel.
Ant. I fit be so,
We need no grave to bury honesty:
There's not a grain of it the face to sweeten
Of the whole dungy earth.
Leon. What! lack I credit?
First Lord. I had rather you did lack than I, my lord,
Upon this ground; and more it would content me
To have [her] honour true than your suspicion,
Be blamed for't how you might.