Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
To see him every hour; to sit and draw
His arched [brows], his hawking eye, his curls,
In [our] heart's table; heart too capable
Of every line and [trick] of his sweet favour:
But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
Must sanctify his [reliques]. Who comes here?
Enter Parolles.
[Aside] One that goes with him: I love him for his sake;
And yet I know him a notorious liar,